The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 3 The Devil's Own

Far below the town walls, on the opposite side of the wide wood-and-stone bridge, blocking our route back to the forest, was a solid-looking crowd of over a hundred of King Bratislav's footsoldiers.

'Well?' Rainulf Bluetooth cleared his throat, then leaned over the town walls to spit into the river below.

'I gave my word.' Count Stephen spoke as if that was the end of the matter. But I knew it wasn't.

'You weren't speaking for the mutur.'

Rainulf's lack of deference towards Count Stephen was distasteful to me. And I knew that as soon as this fierce man was finished fighting for God, he would be a criminal. Yet with a difficult journey back through a dark forest full of vagabonds ahead of me, I was glad of him all the same.

Having studied the bridge again, Rainulf looked up, caught me staring at him, and scowled. Then as I glanced away, embarrassed, he turned to Gerard. 'What do you think?'

'Shouldn't be a problem, if we go at it right.'

'What's the right way, then?'

'Archers until they come on, then our knights lead us in.'

'Our knights?' Rainulf flashed a humourless smile. 'All seventeen of them?'

'That's enough to make the difference.'

'If they'll fight.' The tattooed warrior looked meaningfully at Count Stephen.

Without his armour, Count Stephen looked slender, but tough. He had no beard or moustache, but an unshaven line of black and silver stubble on his cheeks emphasised a determined-looking jaw-line. He had a slight forward lean too, reminding me of the old yew tree outside of our church at Castle Rocadamour. 'We should negotiate, to see if we can talk or bribe our way past them.'

By way of reply, Rainulf coughed and spat again. This time the thug's contempt for our finest noble angered me. There was nothing wrong with Count Stephen's idea.

Seemingly aware of the offense that Rainulf was causing, Gerard smiled appeasingly and gestured with open palms. 'I doubt there's any point, but I don't see any harm in trying.'

'Very well.' The count turned to leave, but one of his men stepped into his path.

'Wait, sire. It is not safe for you down there.' The knight looked over at me. 'Send the boy.'

My heart leapt. Was I afraid? Or excited?

'Guibert is not going to ride within range of their bows,' announced Arnulf at once. Which promptly made up my mind.

'I want to go.'

All six men (and a dark-haired woman who stood companionably beside Gerard) looked at me and no one said a word. So I set off for the stairs, Arnulf hurrying after me hissing words that would have embarrassed me had they reached the ears of the men I was leaving behind. Why didn't I think of my father? What was to be gained from being so reckless? And then, when he saw I didn't falter, that I must secure my gorget before getting on my horse, that many a good man had died from an arrow hitting just above the hauberk at the neckline.

We rode onto the bridge together, Arnulf and I. My lance with the Rocadamour colours tied to it was held in Arnulf's right hand, which he repeatedly waved towards King Bratislav's troops.

High up on the walls of the town, nearly all our men and women were looking out past the crenellations, watching me. I felt important and proud. I had never been an envoy before today.

On the other side of the bridge, one of King Bratislav's crossbow men raised his bow and pointed the bolt tip at my face. In an instant a cold wave of fear took away my pride. Now I wondered whether in fact I was a fool. It had been easy up on the tower to say I would go and carry out the negotiations. I had felt brave in doing so. What vacuity. I was no braver than the men who remained behind in safety. Simply, I was more innocent of the all-too-real dangers of the situation than they. Gerard, Count Stephen and Rainulf weren't admiring me from up there, they were just glad it was me on the bridge and not them.