SirenSong Page 16

  Bent over as he was, William did not see the Welshmen pouring out of the barn, racing around toward the troop, which was occupied with looting. Those in the buildings had not heard his shout, but a few who were running from one hut to another did hear, and Raymond had heard. Thus, the victorious yell of the man who paused to finish William turned into a shriek of pain. Dimly William heard the nervous snort of a war-horse, the thud of hooves as the animal was curbed down from a rear. Then a strong, young voice was roaring, “À Marlowe! À Marlowe!”

  William found his handgrip. The blackness that had been threatening to engulf him receded as the piercing agony in his side dwindled to an ache. William was not deceived. He could feel the blood running down under his already-soaked shirt and tunic. He did not have much time. Then a shield hit his. A hand grasped the mail on his shoulder ungently.

  “Mount, my lord! Mount!” Raymond urged.

  “No,” William gasped. “I cannot.”

  He levered himself to his feet with Raymond’s help, and the young man cried out when he saw the broken shaft still protruding from his shoulder and the flood of blood on his right side. The arrow he had torn out of his flesh was still caught in his mail, the shaft banging against him as he moved. Before he could speak again, two more of the Welsh were at them. He thrust Raymond’s shield away, grunting with pain but pleased that he could still protect himself. One man, unwary because William had seemed half dead a moment before, was killed with his first swing. The other fell to Raymond’s stroke while still watching William.

  Raymond had the reins of the horse clutched with the handgrip of his shield and he pulled the animal forward to afford a rough shelter for William, but William shook his head impatiently.

  “I can still stand,” he muttered, “but not for long. Burn the barn. Burn it!”

  “No need, sir,” Raymond replied, shoving William forward with his shoulder.

  William turned his head to stare, stumbled, recovered. “Mauger is come?” he asked, his voice slurring.

  “No, I set the roof of the house alight as soon as I heard you cry out. It will make as good a smoke. The men will soak the walls with the other skins of oil if they can.” Suddenly he pushed William harder. “Put your back to the wall, sir.”

  Wall? William wondered what wall? Where was the wall? He felt the pressure against him relax, heard the clang of metal and a shout. Dimly he realized Raymond was engaged again. He began to turn toward the sound but had sense enough left to understand that he would be more a danger than a help to the young knight. It was dark ahead. Sight fading? Perhaps, but… The wall! He lunged forward, felt a glancing blow on his right shoulder and swung his sword blindly in that direction as hard as he could. There was a thwack that should have been satisfactory, but it nearly jarred his sword from his weakening grip.

  “Ware! Guard!” an anguished voice bellowed.

  It was too late. William made a convulsive effort to lift his shield, but it was too heavy, too heavy. He plunged forward into a most welcome darkness in which there was no pain and no duty.

  To Raymond it seemed as if the blow launched by the Welshman had struck William’s unprotected head with full force. With a roar of fury, he whirled away from his own opponent and slashed at the man who had struck William down and was still off balance. The edge of his blade bit deep, severing the leather corselet and breaking the bone. He shoved the screaming man off with one foot and swung around, not bothering to lift his sword but using the force of his whole turning body to drive it.

  He barely missed the legs of his own stallion, but did not miss the man who had leapt forward hoping to catch him from behind while he was engaged with the one who had struck William. His sword hit just above the knee, sheared through the unarmored leg, and bit into the other. The wail of agony was soon cut off. As the man toppled, lowering his shield, Raymond’s second blow nearly severed his head from his neck completely.

  In the relative silence that followed, Raymond could hear a hoarse panting. He looked down at William hopefully, but his body did not seem to be moving. The sobbing breaths were those of the other man who was not yet dead. Raymond was suddenly filled with grief and hatred. He took half a step forward to finish the work he had begun, but shouts and sounds of battling men made him aware of his responsibility.

  It was only then that he realized he had let go of his horse’s rein in the few past wild minutes. The destrier was young, not completely trained, and was totally confused by a lack of weight in the saddle and a loose rein. It was rearing and fighting, but too far away for Raymond to reach without abandoning William. Raymond cursed the luck that had strained the foreleg of his own horse, but he did not waste time. He dragged William the few feet to the barn wall, pushed him against it, and took up his stand. At least he would bring her father’s body home to Alys, he thought, not realizing he was crying until the salt tears wet his lips.

  Soon, however, he was too busy to cry. He fought and bellowed “Marlowe! Marlowe!” One man of the troop found him, then another. All raised their voices together, and little by little the remains of the troop rallied around William’s still body. Fortunately there were enough of them to make a turtle because, after several rushes had left more Welsh, dead and wounded than English, the wily fighters withdrew and strung their bows again.

  Seeing their intention, Raymond considered ordering the men to take shelter in the barn. In the next instant he realized that could easily lead to disaster. With the house burning already, they would not need to look for ideas on getting their enemies into the open again. Then, thinking of the house afire, he realized it was long, very long, too long since he had set that blaze. Mauger should have come long ago. In the heat of fighting and the cold of grief he had forgotten that they were bait, a force deliberately too small for the odds they faced.

  Guilt grasped at him with poisoned claws. He had been too hurried. His firing of the thatched roof had failed. With the thought his eyes rose, and his breath caught with fear. He had not been too hurried. The house was in flames, plumes of smoke being swept up and out by the wind, up and out over the barn!

  It came to Raymond then that he would not have the grief of bringing William home to Alys. How fortunate he had covered her father’s letter with his own addressed to the king. Raymond heard his own voice giving orders to the men, some to kneel with their shields before them, others to stand to guard the heads and middle, still others to hold shields above their heads so that a near-invulnerable surface would be presented to the Welsh archers.

  Useless, all useless, his mind cried, simultaneously surprised at the firmness of his voice, at the cheerful way he was urging the men to be steady, promising that they would not be abandoned, that even if Sir Mauger was by some cause delayed, the Earl of Hereford himself would soon be on his way with the whole army. That might be true, Raymond thought, but it would make little difference to them. Soon the barn would be in flames and they would have to move. And he would not leave Sir William to burn. He would not!

  They withstood that volley and another. Now, however, some of the men were craning their necks to look above. Raymond urged them sharply to look to their shield wall. “The fire is on the other side,” he assured them. “It will be long before it eats through the beams.”

  But he knew he could not hold them still much longer. They were fighting men and feared the fire far more than they feared the weapons of the Welshmen. He feared it himself and knew the fear was muddling his mind, making him slow to think of expedients that might save them.

  William had fallen forward on his shield, his arm sliding out of the hold as he went down. His right hand, still clenched on the pommel of his sword, had been jammed against his right side, pressing the torn shirt and tunic under the mail directly against the wound. The pressure had stopped most of the bleeding and the heat of his body with the group of men crowded together for the defense had dried blood and cloth together into a hard plug. This held tight, even when the feet of the men backing tight together
pushed him so that he rolled to the left. The broken shaft of the arrow was pressed into the ground, driving the head deeper under his collarbone.

  Pain lanced redly into the pleasant black nothingness that had enveloped William. He moaned, his left hand scrabbling weakly on the ground in an effort to lift himself away from what was stabbing into his shoulder. His fingers found a purchase and clutched. Raymond, who had been standing above him, bent down with a cry of joy. He had been so sure William was dead, having seen the stroke on his head and blood running down his neck that he had never bothered to confirm it.

  “Sir William is alive,” he cried.

  Momentarily, all spirits were lightened. Those of the troop who had survived were the more experienced men William had taken from Marlowe and Bix to strengthen his force of recruits. They were used to thinking that Sir William would get them out of any trouble he led them into. He always had in the past. They were willing to fight for Raymond, who was brave and steady. They liked him and trusted him, but they believed in Sir William.

  The lines of the turtle, which had been wavering as one man and then another inched forward away from the sounds of fire above and behind, firmed. Raymond knelt, lifting and turning William so that he was face up, propped against his knee. The whole side of his face was plastered with mud and blood, but the eyes blinked as light hit them. Before Raymond could speak, another volley of arrows came, but the men had pulled together just in time. The chinks that had been in the shield wall seconds before, which had induced the Welsh to shoot, were closed.

  The men knew it, recognized their escape, and their spirits rose still further. Taunts and catcalls came from behind the shields. Volleys of abuse flew in answer to the volley of arrows that had failed its purpose. The sound of their own voices launching insults for want of better weapons was cheering also. It made them feel less helpless, less trapped, even though the situation had not changed.

  “We are trapped,” Raymond was saying urgently to William. “Sir Mauger has not come, and the barn behind us is afire.”

  William’s hazel eyes lifted to Raymond’s face. They were dazed, but William’s lips moved. Raymond bent closer, struggling to understand the indistinguishable mumble. “South,” he made out and then, “to Hereford.”

  Revelation came to Raymond. What a fool he was to keep the men standing here. Softly he began to give orders. The men were to close the turtle further so that four of them could load William on his shield. Then they were to move down along the barn, that was south, as Sir William said. This would take them much closer to the huts.

  The change in position, Raymond realized, would provide a number of advantages. First and most important, it would give the men something to think about, a feeling that they were doing something to save themselves rather than simply waiting to be burnt or slaughtered. Perhaps they actually could do something—make a dash for the huts when the barn became too dangerous. Among the huts it would be far more difficult to shoot at them and almost impossible for a large group to rush them.

  A real roar came from the roof of the barn. Instinctively Raymond looked up. He was aware, even while he stared, frozen, at the pillar of fire that had shot up, that the voices of the men had fallen into silence, the taunts and laughter dwindling away. It was time to move, to give them a second dose of hope. Raymond brought his eyes down to gauge what the Welsh would do, and his voice froze in his throat. He stared every bit as blankly as the men around him. There were no Welsh. The area they had occupied was empty. Even the old cow and the few sick sheep that had been left in the field to the north of the barn had disappeared.

  Chapter Eleven

  The comfortable dark would not enfold William properly. Little red flickers and flashes of pain kept piercing it. From time to time there were sounds, most of them were distant, but a few times his name was called loudly and persistently. He tried to answer. There were tears in the voice, so it was important. However, when his eyes opened, a whole pitch barrel of agony burst in his head and he slipped back into the dark with relief.

  Then, suddenly, fire blazed in his shoulder, and it did not die but burned fiercer and fiercer until he struggled against it, crying out, trying to quench it with his hands. But he was bound. Torture? The Welsh? But why? Who? He forced open eyelids weighted with stones, but the blur beyond them was meaningless. At last, as suddenly as it had flared up, the flame of pain diminished. The blur congealed into a face—old, concerned, with a rim of gray hair.

  “What…” William whispered.

  “You will be easier now.” The voice was also old, very gentle. “The arrow was lodged under the bone and it was needful to cut deep, but it is out now, my son. Sleep.”

  “Water,” William pleaded.

  “Yes, of course.”

  His head was raised and a cup held to his lips. He drank thirstily, drank again, and lay back. His eyes closed. He forced them open once more. But the man had already turned away, and William caught only a glimpse of a gray robe belted with a rough cord. Not the Welsh, he thought muzzily. That was the robe of one of the new orders of friars. He must be in the infirmary of a holy house.

  Later, William knew it was later because when he was awakened he was aware of a raging thirst. Since the last thing he remembered was drinking, he knew time had passed. However, it was not the thirst that woke him now, it was voices and one of them was familiar. Somehow, he did not wish to answer that voice, and he lay limp.

  “Are you sure he will live?”

  “My son, all things are in God’s hands, but there is no reason why he should die. He is strong, and no vital organ was touched, no inner part of the body. The wounds are large, but they are of the flesh and are clean. God willing, yes, he will live.”

  “I am glad of that. He is a longtime friend and my close neighbor.”

  Mauger, William thought, and was flooded with a double and triple guilt. He was ashamed of disliking the man, knowing that he disliked him because of the many injuries he had done him. Worse yet, he was aware that he had not wanted to recognize the voice nor answer because he did not want it to be Mauger. Quicker than thought, he had hoped that Mauger had also been caught in the trap and was dead. Now William would have spoken out of shame, but guilt intensified his weakness, and he could not find his voice.

  “I do not like this place you have laid him,” Mauger was saying.

  “We are crowded, my son,” the friar answered. “There are many wounded.”

  “I know, but you could take away that table under the window and turn the two other pallets. Then he could lie near the window where there is better air. If you will do that, I will make an offering to the church.”

  William felt even worse, but he could do nothing. He could not bear to be beholden to a man he had cuckolded, whose fond hope of alliance he must oppose.

  “Well, there can be no harm in that,” the gentle old voice said. “When he wakes, we will move him.”

  William fought his burning thirst. He was hot and his whole body throbbed, with peaks of pain centered in his right side above the waist, his left shoulder, and his head behind the right ear. He thought longingly of the place by the window where there would be a cool breeze, but he could not accept a favor from Mauger. He could not. Water. The word rang in his body, but he set his teeth over it, refusing to admit he was awake.

  He thought he would die of longing but instead, worn out by the struggle with himself, he slipped into darkness again.

  The next time it was the thirst that awakened him. Before he remembered it was important not to wake, he croaked the precious word. At once his head was lifted. After the first few swallows, the cup was withdrawn. William opened his eyes the better to say he was still thirsty and saw it was Raymond bending over him.

  “Raymond…” Then it all came back, quite clear in his mind. “Thank God, you are alive,” he sighed, and then, petulantly, “I am hungry. When is this?”

  “Dawn, sir.”

  “Dawn when? How long since that damn raid?”
Then William groaned. “What a fool I was. How many men did we lose?”

  “Not so many,” Raymond soothed. “And you were not a fool, sir. We would have all been dead if you had not called a warning. How did you guess they were in the barn?”

  “The loading doors were open.”

  Despite pain and remorse, William could not help smiling at the puzzled expression on Raymond’s face. That too-well-brought-up young man had never in his life given a thought to loading doors in a barn. Well, if he was going to marry Alys, he would have to learn such things. There was little doubt in William’s mind now that Raymond would be his son. Alys was halfway in love with him. William had only to tell her he was willing and she would yield her heart completely. One thing was sure. William knew he owed his life to Raymond. Watching him rise and put the cup away, he saw the young man was moving stiffly.

  “Are you much hurt?”

  “No. A few cuts. Nothing of account. They have been tended. Ah, here is your broth.”

  This time William was propped on pillows. He wanted to feed himself, but the acolyte would not permit that. By the time half the bowl was finished, William was grateful. He was surprised at how tired the simple act of swallowing made him. He had been hungry, but he could not even finish what was in the bowl, and he slept again. However, he could not have slept long when voices woke him. Raymond’s was immediately identifiable, but William paused before he opened his eyes. Shame or no shame, he did not feel well enough to speak to Mauger.