SIX
The road wound along the base of a narrow bluff, edged with pink-and-gray stone. A scraggly forest of pine and oak blanketed the northern end of the bluff, and individual trees poked defiantly out of the slope. On the eastern side of the road, fields that had been farmland a generation ago were being reclaimed by wild grasses and the isolated groupings of young saplings, eager to spread their branches without being hemmed in by older trees. A haze of dust lay over the valley.
Domarus had spotted the silver caravan earlier, hurrying back to alert the rest of the Shield-Brethren company. When they had spotted the rising dust, they had spurred their horses into a gallop, hoping they were not too late.
Feronantus rode in the second rank, behind the lancers. His helmet and the men in front of him limited his field of vision, and he was nearly upon the caravan of wagons before he could see the confusion into which they were riding. The wagons were in disarray; several were off the road entirely, moving in haphazard directions as their oxen teams wandered without drovers to direct them. One wagon was overturned, its team slaughtered. Scattered groups of men—some wearing blue-and-white surcoats, some wearing imperial colors—fought with one another. It seemed there were more men in blue and white.
“Alalazu!” The cry rose around him as the Shield-Brethren host engaged the caravan attackers. The rank of lancers, forming into a wedge, burst through the cluster of riders at the front of the caravan. Feronantus, with Rutger on his left, clashed with the few riders who had not been unhorsed by the lancers.
Guiding his horse with his knees, he slashed with his sword, cutting through the surcoat of a man holding a mace. He felt the tip of his sword rattle off maille, and he raised his shield as the mace-wielder retaliated, slamming the heavy head of his weapon against Feronantus’s shield. He grunted, feeling the impact through his arm, but it was better to take the hit on his shield than anywhere else. His maille might protect him against swords and arrows, but a crushing blow from a blunt weapon like the mace would easily break bones.
Feronantus peered over the edge of his shield. As his opponent raised the mace for another blow, Feronantus leaned forward, thrusting with his sword, and the tip of the blade caught the other man just below the jaw. He flicked his hand to the side and felt his sword slice through flesh, catching for just a second as it cut through the leather strap of his opponent’s helmet. As Feronantus’s horse jostled the other horse, the mace-wielder tumbled out of his saddle, blood spurting from his throat.
Out of the corner of his eye, Feronantus sensed another man coming from his left, and he drummed his heels against his horse as he ducked behind his shield. As his horse surged forward, he swept his shield outward, and he felt a sword scrape across the surface. He lowered his shield, twisting his body to the left so as to bring his sword to bear against his new opponent, but there was no need. The man had been concentrating on hitting Feronantus and had failed to notice Rutger, whose sword caught him in the side of the head, cleaving through the leather of his helm as well as his skull beneath.
He had no time to thank Rutger, though, as a crossbow bolt punched through Feronantus’s shield, the bolt piercing his surcoat and lodging in his maille. He didn’t think it had gone all the way through, but he knew that he might not even realize how badly he had been struck until after the battle. He caught sight of the crossbowman and directed his horse at the man. If he succeeded in reloading the weapon, Feronantus might not be as lucky a second time.
The crossbowman knew he was in race for his life, and he struggled to pull back the heavy string and get another bolt loaded. The man tried to not look up as Feronantus drove his horse at him; his hands shook as he fumbled with the bolt, trying to lay it down on the stock of the crossbow. He pulled the trigger before he had even raised the weapon all the way to his shoulder, and he looked up in time to see Feronantus’s sword arc toward his face.
Feronantus felt the shock of his sword hitting bone at the same instant he felt his horse stumble. The animal collapsed, and he leaped out of the saddle. His sword was wrenched from his hand, but he held on to his shield. The ground rushed at him, and for a moment, he was back in the darkness underneath Petraathen. The cold water rushing around him, the weight of the aspis pulling him under the surface. Never let go, his oplo had instructed him. Never let go of your shield.
He hit the ground, shield first, and rolled over it and to his feet. His chest heaving, his helmet slightly askew—blocking his left eye—he took stock of his surroundings. The crossbow bolt had struck his horse, and it had stumbled and fallen. Judging from the way it was thrashing on the ground, one of its legs had been broken. But the crossbowman was down, Feronantus’s sword jutting from his chest.
The general melee had moved off to his left. For a moment, he was out of the fighting.
Feronantus retrieved his sword, gave his horse a merciful death, and then started toward the wagons.
“There are three groups fighting,” Otto’s scout reported. “The imperial guard, some other group, and men wearing the red rose.”
“Shield-Brethren,” Bertholdus growled. He was Otto’s second-in-command. A sword cut to the neck had permanently damaged his voice, and the scar was a vivid line across his throat.
Otto nodded in agreement. “King Richard’s dogs,” he said. He jammed his helmet on his head. “Let’s just kill them all,” he said to Bertholdus.
Bertholdus smiled and raised his arm to signal the rest of Otto’s mercenaries. When he brought his arm down, the host charged, streaming out of the forest at the base of the bluff.
The field of battle was a chaotic mess. The imperial guard was fighting the men in blue and white, who—it seemed to Feronantus, judging by the language he heard some of them using when they shouted to each other—were French mercenaries. Some of the imperial guard recognized the red rose emblem of the Shield-Brethren, but there were still a few altercations between imperials and Shield-Brethren until it was clear that they were allies. At which point the French realized they were surrounded, and their efforts turned more to flight than conquest.
Then, as individual French fighters were throwing down their weapons and fleeing, a fourth group burst out of the forest and charged toward the bloodied fields. The new group attacked the fleeing French, and the imperials cheered the arrival of reinforcements, but Feronantus didn’t see their colors. His stomach knotted as he recalled Richard’s theory of betrayals and counter-betrayals.
“Where’s Geoffrey?” he shouted at Rutger, who was still astride a horse.
Rutger shook his head. His shield was missing, and a sleeve of his maille was stained red.
“They’re not allies,” Feronantus shouted.
“They seem friendly enough,” Rutger said. “They’re killing the French.”
“They won’t stop with the French,” Feronantus snarled. “Find Geoffrey. Rally our brothers.”
As Rutger turned his horse, Feronantus ran toward a nearby wagon and clambered up onto the plank. From his vantage point, he could see the approaching host more readily. He couldn’t count their number quickly, though he guessed there were more than four dozen. They wore no colors, and they carried no standard.
The cold awareness of the Vor churned in his guts. These men definitely weren’t reinforcements. They were Henry’s private mercenaries, and as he watched, a pair of men, running in front of the rest of the host, fell upon a Shield-Brethren rider. One of the two dragged the knight out of his saddle, and the other one stabbed the fallen knight again and again with his sword.
“We’re under attack,” he screamed, his voice tearing.
The host, hearing his alarm, howled in response.
Shivering, Feronantus leaped off the wagon. If the Shield-Brethren had sustained no losses, they were still outnumbered two to one. But he knew some of his brothers had fallen. He had no idea how many imperials were left, but he doubted they had much stomach for more fighting.
He, too, was tired. He had started to feel an ache in his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck his maille, and there was blood dripping from the bottom of the right sleeve of his armor. He didn’t recall getting hit in the arm, but it had happened. His sword felt heavy.
He tightened his grip on his weapon.
The odds were bad, but that didn’t mean he was going to give up. The Shield-Brethren never gave up. They never lowered their shields.