Knights of the Hawk (Conquest #3)

Even in the darkness I could discern the grim look in his eyes. He wasn’t comfortable being out on the river by night, and I didn’t blame him, especially given how close we were to the enemy encampment. Indeed at first he’d refused to take us, but the sight of a pouch filled with coin, and the promise of more to come, had been enough to persuade him to lend his services. I only hoped that it turned out to be silver well spent, for I had precious little to spare. With each day that went by it seemed that I grew ever poorer.

I nodded to Pons, who cupped his hands around his mouth and made a hoot like an owl’s so that Wace and the others in the following boats would know to stay close. It was important we didn’t lose one another now. After a moment’s pause the answering call came from both crews, and so, taking care to keep the sound of our paddles and punting-poles as quiet as possible, we carried on, making for that wooded rise: the islet of Litelport, which was the name of the small market town that had until recently stood upon it. It lay a little to the north of the larger Isle of Elyg, the two separated by a boggy channel less than an arrow’s flight wide at its narrowest point. The king had tried to occupy it in the early days of the siege, in order to establish a base from which to launch raids and to let our siege engines do their work, but the enemy attacked before he had been able to throw up any manner of earthwork or palisade. Repulsing his forces, they had laid waste the town together with its storehouses, jetties, slipways and the nearby steadings, preventing us from using it again as a staging-post.

Until now, or so I wanted the enemy to think. No sooner had we landed on its shores, running our boats’ keels aground on the mud beside a row of blackened posts – all that remained of a landing stage – than we set to work. First we hauled our small craft up from the river’s edge into the thicket where they wouldn’t be seen, then while I set a grumbling Hamo and his men to gather firewood, the rest of us carried the tent-rolls and bundles of kindling and everything else we’d brought with us down to the islet’s southern side, where we could look out over the marshy channel in the direction of Elyg. From so far away and in the darkness it was, of course, impossible to make out anything of the monastery or the enemy encampment, but occasionally the mist would clear and in those moments I spied the glimmer of distant guard-fires, beside which sentries would be warming themselves while they watched out over the marshes. We would be lucky if we could draw any of them out, I thought, especially on a damp night like this. More likely the enemy would keep to their halls inside their stout palisades, where they could bed down by the embers of their hearth-fires and wrap themselves in thick cloaks of wool and fur. But I was determined not to give up yet. Not after coming so far.

Working quickly, we laid and lit the fires, set up the tents around them, tossed bedrolls and coin-pouches inside and then across the ground we scattered leather bottles filled with wine, wooden cups, iron cooking-pots, handfuls of chicken bones and a few splintered shields that we had no use for, so that it looked as though there was a camp here. Hamo and his band of men brought armfuls of fallen branches down from the thicket and we cast them on to the fires, feeling the heat upon our faces as the twisting flames took hold and rose higher and higher, causing the green leaves to hiss as they shrivelled away to nothing. Great plumes of white smoke and orange-glowing sparks billowed up into the night, and even through the mist I reckoned they must be visible from the Isle. Once the enemy saw them, they would surely send a scouting-party to find out what was going on. Like moths to a candle they would, I hoped, be drawn in. As soon as I was satisfied that the fires were burning brightly enough, we retreated to the cover of the thicket, within easy arrowshot of our false camp. Our snare was set and we could only wait now for it to be sprung.

James Aitcheson's books