Nicholas was seated on the bed, deep in conversation with the physician. He appeared to be blooming with health. He looked up as Emeline entered, and grinned. “We’ve been talking about the uses of blood and its circulation,” he informed her. “Seems I’ve lost so much blood it will relax the heart, slow the circulation thus aiding breathing, and certainly do me good. Personally I just think it makes me wobbly kneed, but the doctor assures me I’m wrong. I shall now recover wonderfully and grow new fingers.”
“Not quite, my lord.”
Jerrid also lounged on the mattressed platform, looking perfectly comfortable. “But our boy will live, probably to a disreputable old age. Come in, my dear, and tell him to behave in a sedate manner while the rest of us go looking for the wretched Adrian.”
Nicholas shook his now neatly bandaged head. “Leave Adrian. He’s lost most of his men. I want that last one left alive, and I want him questioned by the ward sheriff. Hopefully Rob has that under control. Adrian can go hide his tail in France or sail off to the Spice Islands for all I care. I wish him joy of it.”
Sitting now beside him, Emeline clutched his left hand. “But my love, you must be feeling horribly ill. You must come home and rest. I shall arrange for a litter.”
“Litter be damned,” Nicholas said with sudden asperity. “Must we pass our time nursing each other in turn?” He laughed, looking up at the doctor. “Make your announcement, sir. Am I fit to ride?”
The doctor was wiping his hands on a blood stained towel. “The gash in your forehead is now stitched, and the stumps of the fingers cauterized, my lord. You have two broken ribs but those will heal if you refrain from undue exercise, and the blow to your head which had caused some stunning of the wits, will clear as you rest. The skull appears undamaged and a headache may be the worst you’ll suffer for it, sir, though you must keep both wounds well bandaged, use the salve I have given you, and do not use your left hand for at least two weeks.” He nodded, untying his apron and folding it neatly. “And I advise you to contact your own medick tomorrow, my lord,” he continued, “since there is always the risk of infection. But I believe a brisk ride home is quite acceptable.”
The late sunshine was an earnest endeavour through the sullen clouds. Nicholas, his wife, his squire and his Uncle Jerrid stood on the steps leading down from the Beauchamp Tower. The rising tide of the river behind them was a steady slurp against the water gate. David brought the horses and assisted his master and mistress into the saddle. Nicholas straightened his back and shoulders, took up the reins and squinted into the low slanting sunbeams. “Home, then,” he said, his voice stronger. “I’ll wait for no one. The sheriff can come to me. But is Brackenbury in his chambers?”
“I’ll report to Sir Robert Brackenbury.” David nodded. “If I may offer you use of my horse, sir,” he bowed briefly to Jerrid, “for your ride back to the Strand. Alan can walk ahead and I’ll follow on foot.”
Jerrid took the reins and swung his leg over the mare’s back. “Sir Robert’s a busy man. If he’s not here, simply inform his lieutenant.”
They left the Tower, its sunny greens and looming stone, three riders and Alan Venter leading the way. The streets were no longer busy, with shops packing up as day faded. The sun now slid behind them into corals, fast deepening to a crimson sunset.
At first they heard nothing, but they had barely passed from the observance of the Tower’s patrols, when they were attacked. Six men had been waiting. A yell, a rush of feet and they appeared, racing suddenly from Water Lane to the left.
Jerrid’s horse reared, startled. Nicholas whirled, his horse snorting in sudden panic as he drew his sword from within his cape. Alan drew his knife, lunging towards the assailants’ leader. Nicholas lashed down, the sword found its mark but unable to hold the reins with his wounded left hand, his horse wheeled. Emeline reached out from her own mount, taking the frightened mare’s reins as it circled as if to bolt. Nicholas yelled, “We’re outnumbered. Emma, get under cover.”
Jerrid was kicking off two men who were pulling him from the horse’s back, dragging him to the ground. One boot found another man’s groin, his sword to the same man’s chest. “Bastards,” he yelled. “Is there no one around to help? Set up a hue and cry. Call the Tower guards.”
“We’re too far beyond the walls –” Nicholas swayed, grabbing at both pommel and sword hilt. The man below him retreated, his shoulder slashed. Nicholas turned back to Emeline. “Get back, for I can’t protect you. Ride back for David.”
She had lost her headdress. Whirling, swirling, surrounded by shouting men and the thrust of blades, her cloak was cut and her hair escaped its pins, half blinding her. She leaned suddenly across, found the hilt of Nicholas’s short knife within his belt, and pulled it out. With a kick of her heels she spurred her horse into the fray and stabbed downwards. A wild aim, it found one man’s cheek and sliced through, grinding into his jaw. In fury, he jabbed back but Emeline’s horse reared backwards as she clung on. She kept hold of the knife, dripping blood to her skirts. “For pity’s sake,” Nicholas yelled at her, “Emma, get out of here. Ride back for David.”
Jerrid was on the ground and on his back, three men on top of him, while Alan grappled with another. Nicholas rode straight into the mob. The horse, forced forwards, trampled arms, legs and backs. Jerrid crawled free.
A man and his wife, passing by, ran for cover but two others raced forwards, shouting. Windows opened, someone screamed, a child peered from his upstairs chamber, cheering on both sides as his father ordered him to race for the ward’s constable. A goat, its tether pulled loose, ran from an alley and butted the ruffian Nicholas had already wounded. Someone raced after the goat, and three more louts appeared from Water Lane, each armed. All three ran straight at Nicholas. Emeline was crying, hair in her eyes. She had lost hold of both reins, fumbling her grip as the horses swerved, avoiding feet and steel. Jerrid scrambled to his feet and kicked out, but his leg was caught by two grasping huge and filthy hands, and he was dragged back beneath a scrimmage. His horse, left riderless, bolted.
Thunder split the sunset’s scarlets. The lightening dazzled for one blink, then night fell like an unchained portcullis. There were shapes moving through the murk, searching to discover which side – which part – who to support – while more appeared from laneways and doorways and their shadows merged – shouting and flailing – impossible to know who to help as citizens emerged from their houses wielding saucepans, jugs of water and kitchen knives. But with no one dressed as a lord, and none wearing the label villain, every man attacked every other. Yet some swore in French, and were well armed.
Emeline screamed, “Where are you?”
And, his voice disappearing beneath the hoard, Nicholas yelled back, “Get the bloody constable.”
Now it was raining. Slashing through the confusion, suddenly illuminated by the white blade of lightening; the storm was directly above them. Someone she couldn’t see gripped Emeline’s arm. “My lady. Come with me.”
She pulled away. “No. I won’t leave him.” She still had the knife, and waved it.
“It’s me, my lady. David. I’ve sent some child and his father for the constable. I’ve set the alarm rolling from the Byward Tower to the conduit. But I can’t help his lordship until you’re out safe. He won’t let me.”