“Good,” Gill said. “Find yourself some bows and ammunition if you don’t have any already, then get up on these roofs.” He pointed to the ones that would give the best vantage point over the approaching enemy. “When you get up there, I want you to look for the Count of Aubin’s banner. It’s the green one with the red prancing horses. When I give the signal, I want every man within ten paces of it filled with arrows. Understand?”
There was a general murmur of assent.
“Right, off you go, and be quick about it now. Stay out of sight until I call on you!”
Some went straight for the buildings, while others headed toward the stores.
With a roar, the attackers came forward, having re-formed into some semblance of order. Gill felt his heart leap into his throat, a sensation he was far more familiar with than seemed to make sense. It was so normal to him, he barely gave it a second thought. The forces met once more, and the chaos of battle resumed at the entrance to the village square.
“Rally to the king! Rally to the king!” Gill shouted. The men roared as though the king were actually with them. Considering how few of them would have seen the king close up, Gill realised that some of them probably thought he was. He couldn’t tell if Aubin’s party had reacted to his call, but it occurred to him that Aubin might be doing exactly the same thing as Gill was, in the hope of drawing the king out. The count himself might be safely tucked away behind his own lines. Still, there weren’t many options left, and this one seemed like their best hope.
The enemy advanced behind an anonymous row of shields. The men behind the front row held their shields above their heads, creating an effective barrier against the arrows that occasionally skittered across the surface. There weren’t many; Guillot’s recent postings seemed to be holding to his orders and restraining themselves—often a difficult thing in the heat of battle when a good shot presents itself.
He could make out the Count of Aubin’s banner following the troops—perhaps his plan was working? He had no idea how good his archers were, though, so he had to wait until the last possible moment to spring his trap.
“Give ground!” Gill shouted. It was risky. A pace or two backwards could quickly turn into a rout with inexperienced troops. “Slowly now,” he yelled as they started to pull back toward him, hoping his voice could be heard by those who counted. “Hold there!”
The retreat stopped and the din from the front increased as the defenders started to fight for every inch. Gill looked at the rooftops, where his archers were concealed. It occurred to him that they might have taken the chance to run, but he was in the middle of it now, and had to act as though they were doing what they were told.
The count’s banner was close enough, so with one final look at the belfry—where, hopefully, Boudain was watching—Gill gave the command. If this didn’t work, he was out of options.
True to their word, a half dozen dark shapes appeared at the tops of the buildings and began firing for all they were worth. There were some shouts, and arrows thudded against shields, but the count’s banner remained flying. The element of surprise didn’t last long, and Aubin’s men reacted quickly—Gill didn’t hear a single scream of pain.
Enemy archers started to return fire, and a man on a roof to the right let out a gurgling cry, then tumbled down on top of the shield platform. He lay there, grotesquely twisted, for a moment, before the shields opened up and swallowed him. When Gill glanced up, the rest had disappeared from sight. He couldn’t blame them. Their surprise attack had had no effect and they’d just seen one of their own killed.
His defensive line gave some ground, then held again. He knew that wasn’t likely to remain the case for long. The reserve was still in the square behind him, but once they were out of the choke point of the streets, numbers would be against them again, and it would only be a matter of time before they were all cut to pieces. The futility of waiting tore at Gill. He shoved the king’s banner into the hands of the man next to him.
Almost before he registered the thought, he was scrambling up and over his men, then across the platform of shields intended to stop arrows from above, not provide a walkway for a lunatic embarking on an ill-formed, last-ditch plan to snatch something from the jaws of certain defeat.
Before he knew it, he was back on the ground and face-to-face with the Count of Aubin’s party. Three men-at-arms surrounded a core group—a couple of nobles and a man Gill recognised as Aubin.
Gill launched himself forward, trading on what little surprise he carried with him. The men-at-arms were slow to react. He lashed out with two savage cuts, one flowing into the other. There was little art to them, but it did not matter—the first two men-at-arms were dead by the time the third had brought his shield up. Even Gill was impressed by the speed with which he was moving. It seemed that some of his former ability was returning.
Kicking hard at the shield, Guillot sent the man-at-arms sprawling back, then cut at one of the noblemen, who appeared not to have realised he might have to actually fight that day. Gill took no satisfaction in killing a man like that, but it was war, and if one of them was going to die, Gill always did his best to make sure it was the other fellow. The man was dead before he had his sword out of its sheath.
Three men dead in the blink of an eye.
The remaining nobleman didn’t seem to be in any hurry to step between Gill and his lord. He had his sword en garde and seemed to be hesitating, resolve teetering on the balance point of duty and self-preservation. His inexperience was telling: Any man who had tasted war knew that hesitation was a surer killer than making the wrong decision. So it was for this man.
Gill ran him through the chest and watched the count’s banner flutter to the ground. Then he turned his attention to the blanched Count of Aubin. Moments before, the count had been witnessing his victory unfold, observing his moment of triumph over the king. Now he was faced with death.
It was Gill’s turn to hesitate now. With Aubin’s troops firmly committed to the attack, he and the count existed in their own little bubble, in which Gill was the arbiter of life or death. Here was a man who was Gill’s social superior—a lord of the realm, the king’s cousin, a man in whom royal blood flowed. Gill had never spilled royal blood before. Not that he knew of, at any rate. Should he present the opportunity to surrender? The king had already made that entreaty.
Aubin was a traitor, and they both knew there was only one way for that to end. Better to finish it now, Gill thought. The death of their commander would have the same effect as surrender once news of it spread. What point was there in fighting and possibly dying for a man not able to enjoy the spoils—or to share them?
The count drew his sword, which settled the matter. Gill preferred it this way. Like most noblemen, Aubin had been trained in the sword, but like many of them, he appeared to have little experience of using it. He made two uncommitted thrusts and backed away a little. Gill could tell right away that Aubin was trying to buy himself time, hoping for rescue. Gill had no intention of allowing this opportunity to pass by.
He lunged forward with a feint to Aubin’s midsection, which the count brought his blade down to parry. Gill slipped his blade to the side and flicked it back, piercing Aubin’s throat. The older man fixed Gill with wide eyes as he spluttered and fought to draw breath. Gill pulled his blade free and finished him with a neat thrust to the chest.
Aubin collapsed to the ground next to his banner. Gill took a moment to catch his breath, surveying his grim handiwork. It seemed that there was never any end to killing. He drew in a gulp of air and let out a bellow.