The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 29 The Red Horseman

The footsoldiers of Wuttgard marched out of their city in fine military style soon after an overcast dawn gave enough light for the fields to become pale grey. Deploying in a long line, with a depth of three men, they then marched to the beat of a drum whose tattoo would have been the grim music that accompanied the final destruction of the remnants of Shalk's army. Except that these soldiers marched into an empty camp.

Safely out of range of their crossbows, Count Stephen and myself and four of his knights were mounted and watching the scene as the men from Wuttgard realised the deception, broke ranks, and ran about the abandoned tents. Behind us, hurrying westwards on the road, were Gerard and a dozen of his men. They had remained to keep the fires attended until the very last, giving our slower-moving people as much time as possible to get away.

Despite the difficulties of leading animals at night, our army had departed quickly enough after my alarm: there was no one in sight as far as a slight rise that was silhouetted against the deep blue western horizon, two or three miles away.

Beyond the confused body of footsoldiers was a lone horseman, Peter Ninefingers presumably.

'Will he pursue us, do you think?' I asked. 'Those men will be able to catch our carts if they are determined enough.'

Count Stephen shaded a tired-looking face against the brightness of the sun, a white disc just above the far tree line. 'The sheriff has acted in every way as his masters would have wished. He's that kind of man, a loyal and competent servant. So, yes, he'll pursue us. I hold no grudge against him for it. Yet he will have deep reservations about bringing all his men westwards.'

'How so?'

'His knights are gone in search of Rainulf, if he brings his footsoldiers after us, he neglects the defenses of the city.'

'It will be safe enough for two or three days won't it?'

'With the bishop dead? And King Henry in the north? I don't know. It all depends on what local feuds exist here. Wuttgard would be a fabulous prize for a discontented vassal.'

Although his tone was flat, Count Stephen's words encouraged me. I felt no anxiety on my own part. Armoured and on horseback, I savoured my freedom. Cateline and the other people of our army, however, were at great risk of being caught if Peter Ninefingers could commit his men to a chase.

'Here they come.'

The rider, a tall figure, almost certainly that of the sheriff, was galloping among the troops and they were forming up for a march, in a column ten wide and two score or so deep.

'Can we defeat them? If we had to?'

'I doubt it. Not unless they are caught off guard, flank or rear perhaps.'

'If we had Rainulf with us?'

'Thirty more mutur?' He looked at me curiously. 'They are good fighters, but would make no difference here.'

The tramp of two hundred men is a powerful sound and once on the road, they moved with alarming efficiency. It required a short trot on our part for the six of us to form a line across the road ahead of them, facing the incoming soldiers, who halted.

Hand raised, Peter Ninefingers rode up the side of the road until he was at the front of his men. 'Parley.'

'Come in peace,' replied Count Stephen.

'So it's you.' His horse was a fine blonde chestnut destrier. 'I will not ask how you escaped, what friend of yours let you out.' Peter did pause, however, perhaps in the hope that we would say something that revealed the source of our assistance. 'But I do ask you to prove yourselves men of honour and stand aside.'