Мериел Фуллер – Innocent's Champion (страница 3)
‘Fancy a swim?’ Henry, Duke of Lancaster, strode towards him across the soggy, hoof-marked mud, his short, stocky body moving with an unexpected grace. Several knights had already divested themselves of their armour, the glinted steel discarded messily on the ground amidst the horses. Now they plunged into the fast-flowing river with shouts of glee, scooping up handfuls of clear, sparkling water and splashing each other, like children.
Gilan handed his helmet down to one of the soldiers. The burnished metal glowed in the afternoon sun. He frowned down at Henry. ‘Are you certain we have time? There are still several hours of daylight left.’
Henry grinned. ‘The men are tired, Gilan. Not everyone can keep going as long as you can. And by my judgement it will take only a couple of more days to reach our destination. Let’s rest here tonight and move on in the morning.’
Gilan shrugged his shoulders, nodded. Whatever Henry’s decision was, it made little difference to him. Eventually, he would have to go back to his parents’ home, but he was happy to delay that return as long as possible. Unconsciously, he kneaded the muscles in his thigh, trying to ease the ache in the scarred tissue. He swung his leg over the horse’s rump, dismounted.
‘You push yourself too hard,’ Henry said, clapping his friend on the back. ‘Most of my men are not in as good a shape as you. I have to make sure you don’t run them into the ground, so they are useless when it comes to finding King Richard.’
‘As long as we keep our wits about us, Henry.’ Gilan watched the knights in the water through narrowed silver eyes. ‘This is hostile country, remember.’
‘How can I forget?’ Henry replied, the smile slipping from his face. He stuck one hand through the russet-gold strands of his hair. ‘Banished to France by my own cousin, the king, just so he could grab at my fortune with his grubby little hands.’
‘Which is why we are here.’ Gilan grinned, white teeth flashing within his smile. ‘To grab it back.’ Gathering up his reins, he moved towards the water’s edge, pushing aside the jostling, sweating horseflesh to gain access. His stallion’s head nudged at his shoulder, keen to reach the water. Some of the knights had moved out into the middle of the river now, swimming properly in the stronger, deeper current, but others had climbed out, undergarments dripping around their knees, drying themselves on the large squares of linen extracted from their saddle-bags. Farther along the river, where the flow narrowed between higher banks to cut through the meadow, swallows flicked low, catching at the flying insects above the water.
The wet mud at the water’s edge darkened the travel-stained leather of Gilan’s calf-length boots, oozing up around the soles. Henry appeared at his side, barrel chest clad only in a white shirt, loose drawers flapping about his legs. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in?’ he asked again.
Gilan shook his head. ‘Later.’ His arm jerked sharply down as the horse pulled against the reins, desperate to drink. A cluster of mosquitoes danced crazily above the water’s surface and he slapped at his neck, irritably.
A hoarse scream rent the sticky air. Then another. The sound barged incongruously into the torpid languor of the afternoon.
Gilan dropped his reins immediately, lean, tanned fingers seizing the jewelled hilt of his sword, drawing it with a long, steely hiss. ‘You, and you—’ he jabbed his finger at a couple of knights standing by the river, still fully clothed ‘—come with me, now.’
Henry had already turned, was clambering back out of the water. ‘No, you stay here,’ Gilan growled at him. ‘I am dispensable. You are not.’
* * *
Despite the significant weight of his breastplate, Gilan ran surprisingly quickly for a large man, the sturdy length of his legs pacing along the track with the strength and agility of a cat, his step fast and sure. Moving swiftly away from the sunlit bank where they had stopped, he and the two other knights followed the river upstream to the point where it ran into woodland: large beech trees trailed delicate branches into the water like brilliant hair braids, tickling the mirrored surface. With no time to seize his helmet, his thick golden hair shone out from the shadowed gloom beneath the trees, where the air pressed in choking layers, ominous, vaguely threatening.
Was it only a couple of months since he and Henry had forged their way through the frozen Lithuanian forests? Slashed back the impenetrable undergrowth where no horse could make progress, felled the brambles and the spent nettles, fixed in ice? Sometimes the snow had been so deep that their horses were forced to plough through man-made trenches, picking their way through towering walls of snow. He had relished that hardship, the impossible landscape that they had to work around, those icy, hostile conditions. They suited him, suited his current frame of mind after... He shook his head smartly, dispelling his thoughts. A wave of grief crested through him, but he clamped it down. Nay, he would not think of that now.
Crouching into the bank, Gilan rammed a broad, muscled shoulder into a bunch of glossy ferns growing high and indicated with a quick, decisive handsignal that his knights should do the same. Up ahead, he could see a covered litter set upon the ground, patterned curtains fluttering outwards in the warm air, like spent butterfly wings. A soldier lay sprawled in the dirt, his face white-grey, his hand pressed against his shoulder; despite his motionless appearance, Gilan could see his eyes were beginning to open. And beyond this fallen knight, other men were fighting, scuffling, hands at each other’s throats, swords swinging, their grunting efforts rising hoarsely.
Springing away from the bank, Gilan jumped towards them, raising the sparkling blade of his sword before him with a roar, and hurled himself into the writhing, spitting mass. Grabbing one man round the neck, he pulled him out of the fray, kicking him in the back of the shins so that he buckled easily.
‘Kneel. Hands on the back of your head where I can see them.’ He signalled to one of his knights to keep guard, his voice guttural, harsh, barking orders.
‘It was them, they attacked us!’ the man was babbling, as he fell to his knees in the soft dirt.
An arrow whistled past Gilan, quiver feathers whispering against his ear. It stuck into the earth opposite him, the shaft bouncing violently with the force of the shot. Too close! He whirled angrily, searching for the archer. A shot like that could only have come from some distance, so someone was watching them from afar. His eyes swept along the river, through the sibilant trees and bulky trunks to a small stone bridge, a crumbling wall of loose stones blotched with orangey-yellow lichen.
And the glint of an arrowhead, peeking out from a high spot on the ruined tower.
His knights were bringing the fight to a close. Already three men were on the ground, hands bound behind their backs, heads bent, subdued. One more man to bring down and his situation appeared increasingly precarious. Gilan sank back into the shadows, using the substantial tree trunks as cover. His boots made no sound as he crept through the waist-high cow parsley, his legs brushing against the delicate, white-lace flowers. Crossing by the bridge was no good, being in full view of the tower. He would slink back along the path, cross the river at a lower point. The element of surprise had always served him well.
Bracing her body against the thick stone, Matilda reached up to extract another arrow from the narrow bag on her back. Adrenaline rattled through her veins; her hands shook so much she was finding it difficult to shoot straight. Her trembling limbs skewed her aim. But every time she peered around the wall, there seemed to be more men down there! The gang’s reinforcements had obviously arrived, armed with swords and short daggers, big and fearsome looking, some even wearing armour that they no doubt had filched from somewhere. For one tiny moment, she considered the possibility of running, of running and hiding with her sister. But the thought of cowering behind a tree trunk, waiting for the thugs to finally catch up with them, seemed a far worse situation than the one she was in right now, tackling the problem head-on. Fine, she might lose, but at least she had tried.
She had missed that last shot, but he wouldn’t be so lucky next time, that huge ruffian who’d appeared from nowhere, with his wild thatch of blond hair. Drawing air deep into her lungs, Matilda fought to control her breathing, the reckless thump in her chest. How many times had she practised, how many times had she drawn back the gut string and sighted an arrow on the target since her brother, Thomas, had given her this bow? But her days and days of endless practising had not prepared her for the real thing. How could she have known that her heart would beat in panic; that her knees would weaken and quiver with nerves at the sight of their household knights falling to the ground; that her fingers would shake uncontrollably as she fitted the arrow up to the bowstring? Her own cowardice conspired against her. Gritting her teeth, she prayed that Katherine had found a good hiding place.