He was wrong. There was no battle left to be won and they discovered the heart-sick lurch of truth when they came up on their old camp, into a confused, whirling affray of men in knots and struggling knuckles, fighting like dog-packs with no order or command.
There were men on foot, formed in little rings half-armed and defiant, while others ran like fox-struck chooks in a coop, pursued by vengeful men in maille mounted on warhorses. Glancing over the shoulder of Sore Davey, to the left of where they had come up, Hal saw a huddle of riders, the bright blue and white stripes and red martlets of Aymer de Valence blazing from the horse barding of himself and his retinue.
‘The King …’ Sim Craw bellowed and pointed to the fist of riders surrounding a figure. He had no jupon, but the golden lion rampant shield was clear and he wore maille and a coif, but only a bascinet, the gold circlet on it gleaming in the sun. Beyond, half-sunk like some sugarloaf in the rain, the striped confection of the royal panoply sagged and round the tangle of it came Dog Boy, his tired garron staggering after his flat-out run to warn the King.
Isabel, Hal thought and slapped Sore Davey on one shoulder, even as he bawled out to the others to go right, towards the tents, away from de Valence. The Dog Boy saw them and turned the garron obediently to meet them, though he was thinking of Jamie Douglas somewhere in the chaos of blade and blood.
They rode past three men, two of them on foot, the rider holding horses; Hal’s heart missed several beats at the sight of the woman struggling between them, but it was one he did not know and was grateful for it.
Dog Boy did. He hauled the garron up short, which balked Sore Davey and Hal cursed him for it, sliding over the rump as he saw the armed men turn in shocked surprise; he shrugged his shield off his back to his arm and hauled out a blade, while Dog Boy, his face ugly with anger, forced the garron at the rider, roaring incoherently and striking out with the big Jeddart staff.
Sim Craw saw the weave of it and brought his own mount to its haunches; two or three others followed and they whirled, flogging back to help; the rest rode on, oblivious so that the shrieks of the slung Hob, woken to a world of terror and agony, faded into the distance.
Dog Boy rode the Jeddart at the serjeant, who cursed and ducked, letting the horses loose as he did so; the shaft slithered over his mailled shoulder, the hook caught in his jupon and Dog Boy, slamming briefly into one of the shocked and plunging horses, rode on, dragging the man out of the saddle. Whooping and roaring, Sim Craw and the handful of men with him rode over him, stabbing downwards.
The woman went flying, discarded and forgotten in an instant while the men dragged out their weapons and turned with the desperate air of cornered rats. One of them saw Sim and the others and bolted away while the other stood in a half-crouch, head moving from Sim to Dog Boy and back to Hal.
He glanced briefly at the shield, discarded in pursuit of the woman, then he made his mind up and charged at Hal, sword held in both hands.
He was a wet-mouthed raver and Hal offered no finesse after the first blow scarred a new ruin on the shivering blue cross of his shield, the shock wave rattling his teeth; he put his shoulder down and launched himself forward, snarling. With a last mighty heave he took the shield in a swinging door slam that made the man grunt, yelp and stagger backwards to fall on his arse, legs and arms waving like an upturned beetle, the sword spilled from his grasp.
In the next second, he found himself staring at a new world, shrunk down to the wicked point of Dog Boy’s Jeddart, which hovered over his face; behind, the abandoned garron snorted at the stink of blood and moved to join the riderless rounceys.
‘I yield,’ squeaked the man and there was a moment when he thought this snarling youth would kill him anyway, a shocking, bowel-loosening moment.
Chirnside Rowan, still mounted, gave a grunt of derision.
‘Christ betimes,’ he growled. ‘No content wi’ dreaming of a rank ye can never have, ye think of being Roland at Roncesvalles, or Sir Galahad chasing the Grail.’
‘Aye,’ Sim Craw declared, coming up behind him, ‘our wee Dog Boy is a gentle parfait for sure. He holds the knightly vow that ye should nivver violet a lady.’
Dog Boy turned to see the woman he’d rescued squatting by the serjeant’s corpse, rifling it expertly, and Hal was standing over her.
‘The Queen and her women?’ Hal was asking her urgently. ‘Where are they?’
The woman hauled off a boot, turned it up and shook it, frowning when nothing fell out.
‘Rode away,’ she answered. She grinned up at Dog Boy.
‘Marthe,’ he said. ‘Are ye weel?’
Marthe tore off the other boot and up-ended it; a double-edged dagger fell out and she took it, frowning when nothing followed it, then beamed back at Dog Boy.
‘Weel enow, thanks to yersel’ an’ yer freends,’ she declared and then winked lewdly at him. ‘I owe ye – whin it is convenient, I will rattle the teeth out of yer head.’
Dog Boy’s face flamed as he looked at Hal.