The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 19 Vengeance Rendered

Not much dew fell in the forest, but in the morning (heralded by a huge roar of birdsong) I rubbed down my destrier vigorously for a good while all the same before putting on his tack. Jacques and Gerard waited patiently until I mounted – with aching, cold legs – and then they set off.

'Do you still have the trail?' I called out to them.

'We do,' answered Gerard.

And that was the last word spoken by anyone until we reached a spacious copse in which a large willow stood out among the birch.

From over his shoulder Jacques drew his bow and began to wind it.

'What's amiss?' I spoke quietly.

Returning to me with a look of lively excitement, Gerard took the destrier's bit and walked me further into the copse. Once past the nearest arms of the willow, I could see the rest of the tree and the heavy scars it bore. Someone had cut through a dozen branches with a saw.

'They live near here, I'd stake my arm on it. There's a path of sorts now too.' He pointed to the ground to the north, where a line of flattened grass ran through the trees.

'Ready,' said Jacques, with a steady, unconcerned voice. My heart, by contrast, was jumping with excitement. Though none of us had spoken as if finding our enemies was anything but a certainty, the greater part of my recent thoughts had dwelt upon the fear that we would lose the trail and that I would never find Cateline again.

'Hold back twenty yards, will you.' It seemed so natural that Gerard would take charge that I no longer had the slightest resistance to the idea that a footsoldier should command a knight. Such social distinctions no longer appeared as absolute as I had been brought up to believe.

Up ahead, Jacques led the way with cradled crossbow; Gerard was close behind him. The signs of human activity increased: more trees with sawn-off branches, some entirely chopped down to the stump; a wider, more frequently trodden path; swathes of grass and flowers chewed down to the ground by animals (goats or pigs?); old and dried out dog droppings.

Then, strangely, Gerard staggered.

Immediately, I urged my mount to hurry forward, fearful that he had been struck by an arrow. As we drew near to where he was kneeling, gasping, my destrier suddenly stiffened, front hooves planted firmly and unmoving; I nearly fell forward over his neck. This too was alarming. A warhorse was trained to keep moving onwards, even into murderous battle with its lethal blades and deafening screams. What could possibly have brought my horse to a halt?

Then it reached me, a stench of decay and death so powerful I felt my stomach convulse and I vomited onto the ferns below. That act brought me some relief from the smell and I regained some control over myself despite recurrent spasms of my stomach.

'What is it?' I called out.

White-faced, Gerard straightened up, shaking his head. It was Jacques who replied, removing his face from the crook of his elbow to do so.

'Come and see.'

Despite a growing revulsion at the putrescent smell, I got off my trembling horse and walked up to where Jacques and Gerard were standing appalled.

The grove beyond them was a bowl shape, like an old Roman amphitheatre, one made from earth, grass and bushes. In the centre of the grove was a huge, ancient yew tree, whose long arms reached in all directions to the sides of the glade. The lower branches were stripped of leaves, instead they bore corpses of animals. Hanging upside-down, feet tied to the yew tree, were dozens of creatures, large and small, a badger, dog and rabbit among the latter, a horse, deer and bear the former. All of them were missing their heads.