Elizabeth Chadwick - The Leopard Unleashed

Inside the wain, Renard finished the usquebaugh. Henry breathed with stertorous effort, the noise all-pervading, drowning out every other sound, including the rushing of the river. Unable to bear it any longer, Renard lifted the canvas flap and followed William outside. For a moment as he stepped from platform to ground, he was so dizzy that he had to clutch the side of the wain and grip until the wood scored his hand.

Two dogs appeared from among the cluster of dwellings, and barked a loud warning at the strangers. They were followed more sedately by an old man leaning on a hickory stick and wearing a cloak made of moth-eaten sheepskins and homespun. Calling the animals to heel, he regarded the small entourage curiously.

‘You’ll not get that thing across yon water,’ he observed, fondling the dogs with the hand that was not holding the stick. ‘Deep as the height of a man in the middle, it is.’

‘We’re not taking the wain over,’ William replied and looked round at Renard who was shivering against its canvas side. ‘You can have it if you want in exchange for some hot food while we load the packhorses.’

The man sucked his motley collection of teeth and considered the group. Usually armed Normans took the direct route through Newark. Abandoning a stout wain like this rather than head for the town spoke of great haste and the need for stealth. The man propped shivering against the cart had a new wound on one cheekbone and looked exhausted.

‘Not stolen, is it?’ he asked as William gestured to his men and they started to unhitch the horses from the wain.

‘No.’ William checked the cinch on his mount’s girth. ‘It was paid for by the Earl of Chester himself — his own seal on the transaction.’

Renard was taken with a sudden fit of coughing.

‘See what I can do.’ Whistling to his dogs, the old man stamped back towards the houses.

In a short while, two women emerged from one of the dwellings to serve the men with watery soup that resembled the river in both colour and texture, and fresh but gritty maslin bread. Renard sipped dubiously, and dis — covered that the soup tasted much better than it looked, hinting of leeks and mushrooms, but then after the deprivations of Lincoln anything short of midden sweepings would have tasted like manna. He dipped the bread into it to soften it and managed tolerably well to eat it.

‘Rumour says that there has been a big battle in yonder town and the King taken prisoner,’ the peasant man remarked as Renard drank the broth.

‘Rumour speaks true.’ He was aware of the man’s shrewd stare lingering on the bruised, clotted mess of his cheekbone.

‘Fought in it, did you?’

Renard gave him a hard look, warning him off. ‘Yes,’ he said stiffly. ‘I fought in it.’ And returning the bowl, he went to untether the bay from the rear of the wain.

The peasant watched as an injured man was gently brought out of the wain and craned for a better view. There was not really a great deal to see, only that his face was waxen with approaching death, and that he was too young to be meeting it. He crossed himself as the youngster was lifted from his bed of latticed hides and straw.

‘Give him to me,’ Renard said, from his pillion position on the saddle.

‘Are you strong enough?’ William demanded.

‘For this, yes,’ Renard replied with grim determination, as Henry was manoeuvred carefully into the empty saddle where he slumped, held in place by the man seated behind.

‘Hah!’ cried Renard to the horse and kicked its flanks. Stolidly, it obeyed his command, and plunged into the rapid water. Spray surged over shoulders, belly and haunches, soaking Renard’s and Henry’s legs. The horse fought forwards against the kick of the current, muscles bunching into hillocks and ravines. Behind, Renard heard the splash of other horses entering the water. Suddenly a woman screamed. Renard turned in the saddle.

William, last to cross, was in midstream, and behind him, coming up fast, was a group of riders in pursuit, weapons drawn.

‘Help me,’ Renard snapped to the soldier at his side, and together they managed to lower Henry from the saddle to the ground. It was wet, cold and muddy, but there was no help for it. ‘Now, train that bow of yours on the ford. Don’t aim for the riders. Arrows will only bounce off helms and shields. Bring down their destriers. Is that bow on your saddle roll spare?’ He held out his hand for the weapon and rapidly strung it.

William’s horse reached the shallows at a lunging gallop, false-footed, and somersaulted mane over tail. William was pitched over the pommel, landed hard, and was knocked out of his senses. The hack threshed to its feet and wallowed on to the bank, where it stood bleeding and trembling. A Welshman shouldered his bow and hastened to catch its bridle and tug it out of the way. Renard and the man whose bow he had borrowed ran to the water and, knee deep, grabbed hold of William to pull him out before he drowned. His hauberk weighed over thirty pounds, and beneath it the quilted gambeson that protected his body from the bruises of impact and the chafe of the rivets was fast becoming waterlogged. Renard and his companion struggled. Across the ford, less than sixty yards away, the first horsemen sprayed into the water.

Renard’s fingernails ripped back to the quick, although at the time he felt nothing, all sensations of pain, all physical and mental exhaustion, extinguished by the upsurge of the survival instinct.

‘Shoot, in God’s name!’ he bellowed over his shoulder at the men on the bank who were staring hypnotised at the approaching horsemen. Aided by William’s groggily returning senses, the two men succeeded in pulling him clear and abandoned him on the bank like a piece of stranded flotsam.

Paying scant attention to the blood running down his fingers, except to be irritated that it might foul his grip, Renard wiped his hands on his water-sodden cloak, set an arrow to the nock, and trained his eye on the broad bulk of a knight astride a dun destrier.

The man’s sword cut the air with a grey glitter. His feet were thrust well down in the stirrups as his horse breasted the water with muscular power. A little to one side an arrow hit the following horse obliquely. It reared with a scream of pain and came down awry. Its rider was thrown into the mid-depths of the river and dragged under by the weight of his armour.

As the dun emerged from the water. Renard released his arrow and saw it sing into the destrier’s throat. The horse ploughed forward, knees buckling, and keeled on its side, crushing its rider and fouling the path of another horse that panicked and shied backwards into the oncoming riders.

The knights following the first onrush became sitting targets for the Welsh archers. With the range so short, only an inexperienced fool would have missed, and these men had been trained to shoot from birth. The knight in the forefront hesitated in his decision to turn back a fatal moment too long. Three arrows buckled his horse beneath him. He managed to leap clear and seize hold of the crossing rope, but without his shield was as vulnerable as a snail half out of its shell. The bravest of the rest spurred to where he clung and gave him a hand into his own saddle, then hastened out of bowshot back to the village side of the ford.

‘Where’s the next crossing point?’ Renard demanded, lowering his bow. The stave was printed and smeared with blood from his torn fingernails.

‘Newark, I think. Lord William knows.’

‘Yes, Newark,’ William groaned, sitting up. ‘Too far for them to catch up, and we can leave a couple of the lads here with their bows to dissuade them from trying this way again … God’s teeth, I feel as if I’ve been through the paddles of Elene’s fulling mill! Is the horse all right?’

‘Bruised and grazed, but still rideable.’ Renard crouched beside his brother. ‘Obviously the news of my escape is well abroad.’

‘Bound to be.’ William’s teeth chattered together. ‘There’s a new Augustinian priory at Thurgarton, no more than two hours’ ride. We can dry out and fortify ourselves for the rest of the journey … Your hands are bleeding.’

‘Have you ever tried dragging a hauberk-clad body out of a river?’ Renard said ruefully. His limbs were starting to tremble in the aftermath of effort and he forced himself to stand up before it became too easy to stay down. Holding out his hand, he pulled William to his feet too, then fetched the bay and went to Henry’s blanket. Sodden with water, William squelched over to collect his own mount from the soldier holding it.

Renard stared down at Henry, then suddenly he stooped and laid his bloodied fingers against his brother’s throat. The skin was clammy and still warm, but there was no life beat, and his face was as grey as the sky, his eyes half open and fixed on eternity.

‘Christ’s mercy, no,’ Renard said softly.

William looked round from inspecting his mount’s grazed legs. ‘What is it?’

‘It doesn’t matter the pace we set now.’ Gently Renard closed Henry’s lids and covered his face. It was not the River Trent they had crossed, but the Styx, gateway to the underworld.

William stared. His throat worked and he shook his head. To live with the imminence of death was still not to be prepared at the moment of knowledge. ‘We can put him over one of the spare horses.’ His voice was a croaked whisper.

‘Yes.’ Renard’s expression was blank as he stood up again. ‘Like a sack of grain or a dead roebuck. I suppose Henry would see no wrong in it.’ His voice cracked. ‘He’s been used to making do all his life.’ He took the bay’s bridle, but instead of mounting, he bunched his fist and crashed it into the trunk of the nearest tree in a futile protest against a futile waste.

The Welsh Marches

The clink of metal on stone in rhythm with the heartbeat of some mason invaded Elene’s consciousness and brought her from a restless, dream-haunted sleep into the awareness of a bleak winter dawn. Shivering, she sat up, called out to her maids and taking her bedrobe from the foot of the bed, put it on over her shift.

In the cradle beside her, Hugh was still asleep, although soon he would be awake and greedily demanding like the ravening Vikings to whom, in a far distant past, he owed his bright Norse colouring. Her breasts were hard and pleasantly sore with milk. The constable’s wife had suggested that she obtain a wet-nurse, but Elene guarded jealously the privilege of feeding her son. His infant years were all that she would have of him. The moment he could sit his own horse and point a toy lance at a quintain, he would enter a man’s arena and break the thread that attached him to the distaff.

Her glance went to the coffer and the parchment lying there — Renard’s last letter from Lincoln, written two days before the battle. She knew it by heart and had no need to read the words because they were indelibly printed on her mind, as was the news of the disaster that had overtaken King Stephen’s forces.

The letter had been followed a week later by Adam’s appearance at Ravenstow along with Renard’s two frightened squires and evil tidings. Having been forced to flee before it was too late, Adam had known nothing of what had transpired after the battle, apart from the fact that Lincoln had been sacked. The smoke had cast a pall over the city, visible for miles around. As he told her and Judith in the courtyard, they had seen Gorvenal being led away by a groom. The stallion had been blanketed, without rider or decorated high saddle. Seeing him thus had brought Adam’s news home to roost with all the impact that his words had been unable to convey. Not just the battle lost, but perhaps the rest of their lives.

Judith had drifted away to the plesaunce in a daze and remained there until nightfall, sitting upon the turf seat and talking to herself. Both Renard and Henry were missing on the losing side of a battle. Her other son, scapegrace and half-wild, was somewhere among the victors, unless he too had been lost in the fighting. It was too much to bear, and she told Guyon so over and over again.

Adam had stayed awhile, but had had to leave to attend to his own lands. Then he was bound for Gloucester, to do homage to the Empress and intercede on Elene’s behalf for Ravenstow. From what Renard had told her of the Empress, Elene doubted that she would be persuaded to show clemency. Left in sole command of the keep because of Judith’s withdrawal, Elene had mastered her grief and panic in an outward display of calm that was reassuring to everyone but herself.