The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 23 Feet Dipped in Blood

When they disembarked and saw us at the window of the castle the mutur who had arrived from the ferry gave us cheers and waves. No sooner had the last man left the craft than the ferry began another journey towards the eastern bank of the river.

Looking at his men through a window, Rainulf smashed through the glass and lead with the head of his axe, so that he could call down to them below.

From outside the hall, from the stairwell, came the sound of the bishop's soldiers ascending towards us, their work at hauling ferry ropes finished.

Leaning out, there was urgency in Rainulf's deep voice, 'remember Speyer!'

Below, the cheering and the catcalls ceased.

'Speyer?' I asked.

'You wouldn't like the explanation.' Rainulf shrugged, giving life to the tattoos on his shoulders. 'In short, there's going to be a fight. Get ready.'

'Pull up my lord the bishop!' The young officer was in the room, panting from his exertions. Another five or six armoured soldiers were right behind him.

'Your lord, as you rightly say, so you can pull him up yourself,' replied Rainulf, folding his arms.

'Take a hold, quickly now.' As the soldiers moved in to the hall and lined up along the rope, more came in behind them. We were outnumbered, badly. A dark, wicked expression could be seen on Rainulf's face. Although it occurred to me that I could die now, in this distant castle room I took heart from Rainulf's presence, that and the fact that half our enemies had their hands on the rope.

As the soldiers hauled in the cable, it came up easily, far too easily and soon the candelabra was clanging against the outside of the window. Their puzzlement did not last long. With loud shouts, we were at them, striking and stabbing before the soldiers could draw their weapons.

'Come on! Come on!' If the screams of the wounded and the mighty clanging sound of steel against steel did not serve to encourage the mutur down below, then Rainulf's roaring voice would bring them up. Would it be soon enough? There was little space in which to fight and my dirk was more use to me than my sword. Two soldiers pressed me towards a corner of the room: one was poorly trained and his lunges were easy to deflect; the other though, waited and stabbed with powerful swift jabs. I was caught in the stomach and although my mail held, I could not draw breath.

I'd have died then, with the room growing distant and a confusion of agonised howling in my ears, but for my enemies having to turn and face the incoming mutur. I staggered against the wall and drew air into my lungs at last. Then again. My head cleared.

Lashing hard into the nearest of Bishop Wernher's soldiers, I cut right through his leather shoulder guards and staggered him. A kick brought the man (he was young, not much older than me, with wild pale eyes) to the floor, where I could stab his unguarded throat with the dirk. Crouched, I was in a good position to thrust my sword point through the back of a soldier's leg and when he looked down at me, his head was shattered by the axe of one of my comrades.

And that was it. We were no longer fighting.

'Rocadamour?'

I stood up.

'Here.'

'Good. I thought we'd lost you.'

As far as I could tell, Rainulf was unharmed and I felt a surge of joy in that fact. For all his faults, it was hard not to love the warrior whose battle skills were bringing me home alive when by rights I should be dead. This pleasure, however, was quickly tempered by the sight of the bodies of our men. Sigurd, for one, would not rise again. And as I looked more carefully at the heaped bodies, I could see that all of the other mutur who had been on the ferry with me that morning were dead too.