The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 17 Forest Beasts

On Gerard's instruction, the army waited a day, just out of view of the river crossing, ready to attack any advanced party that dared cross. After that day had passed, with no sign that Prince Slavniak's army were even gathering at the Reiber, let alone attempting to cross the river, we took the decision to hurry westwards once more. And although I retained a certain anxiety that we would suddenly be assaulted from the east, three days passed with no cry of alarm from our scouts; the feeling grew in the army that Prince Slavniak had ceased his pursuit of us.

A sense of foreboding nevertheless seeped into my heart. In part it arose from the sustained hostility of the mutur towards the rest of the army. No good could come from the way they kept themselves apart from the rest of us. Those – like me – who tried to talk to the mutur were greeted with silence and angry looks. Would they even fight alongside everyone else, should we find ourselves in battle again?

The forest too, played a role in forming my anxiety. Here, thick clusters of spikewoods lined the road, their twisted branches reaching towards us like straining arms. Knots in the squat trunks of these trees gave them faces with angry expressions. The road, also, became less friendly, losing its easy-going solidity. For long stretches – miles at a time – it was broken up, with the invasive roots of those same spikewoods forcing up the old Roman slabs and even splitting the thick stones.

This was the wildest part of the forest. No lord governed here, despite the claims of the Duke of Saxony to all the lands up to the banks of the Reiber. There were bears, wolves and ferocious boars here aplenty. But the beasts living in the shelter of the dark trees were not the main danger to our army. Of far greater concern were the communities of outlaws that lived in the depths of the forest. Last month, when we had marched eastwards, even though our army was vast compared to the tiny force that were returning, we had suffered from the forest pagans. Those of our poor people unfortunate enough to fall behind the army through sickness or accident never caught up with us again. Our scouts would report the discovery of bodies on the road, decapitated, possessions taken: boots, belts, cloaks and sometimes even shirts and trousers. No doubt, these robbers and murderers were lurking again at the rear of our army even now, waiting for someone to fall so far behind that our rearguard (the mutur) were out of sight.

Gerard, however, seemed to be in excellent humour. 'A grand day, Lord Rocadamour, and another day closer to home.' He was marching some fifty yards ahead of his troops, more or less half the distance to Count Stephen's knights. Walking with him was Jacques and, of course, Melinde.

From my vantage in my saddle, I looked down at Gerard's balding, close-shaven head. 'I care not for these woods and will be glad when we reach the lands of Bishop Wernher, though he be no friend of ours.'

'Bishop Wernher,' Gerard repeated, no longer sounding so cheerful. 'Aye, he could be a problem. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'Did you try talking to Rainulf?' asked Melinde, looking past Gerard's shoulder to meet my eye.

'I did. But he told me to leave.'

'And with a colourful expression, I'm sure.' Gerard shared a grin with Jacques.

Melinde frowned. 'Do you think he'll join our ranks in battle, should the need arise?'

'Of course he will. He's not going to bring ruin and death to his own people out of petulance.' Gerard lifted his arm to Melinde's shoulders, to pull her to him affectionately, but she fended him off impatiently, the better to see me.

'I'm not so sure.' I adjusted my seat. 'There's something ... unpredictable ... Rainulf is a hard, dangerous man.'

'He is dangerous,' agreed Jacques. 'But if he wants his share of the treasure – and he does – he'll play his part in getting us through to France again.'