‘Ride to the castle. Tell Guy that Athold is here, with a small force and vulnerable. Bring him as quick as you can.’
William slips away. Sheltering behind the church wall, Jocelin and I listen to what Athold is saying. All we can see is the cone of his helmet, and the point of his spear.
‘From now on, your tithes and your taxes come to me.’ He walks his horse back and forth in front of the villagers. The helmet traverses the top of the wall. One of the villagers must say something: all of a sudden, the helmet stops and Athold shouts.
‘Guy de Hautfort is no longer your lord. Can he protect you? Can he protect you?’ The spear rises and swings down. I hear a grunt and a scream. He must have cracked it over some poor unfortunate’s head.
‘Where is the miller?’
A shuffling in the crowd as the man comes forward.
‘You are my tenant now. For supplying my enemy, Guy de Hautfort, your mill is forfeit.’
I remember the miller, I’ve seen him before. An old man with white hair and white skin, as if flour had been ground into every pore. His voice is strong and clear. ‘The mill is my patrimony. My family have always kept it.’
‘Until now.’
A desperate note. ‘What will my son inherit?’
‘Your son? Is this him?’ The helmet turns a fraction, tilts forward. ‘Is it true you’re worried about your inheritance?’
I don’t hear the answer. Athold doesn’t either. ‘Speak up.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes …?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘So.’ Athold considers this. Then, so fast I barely catch it, the spear spins around and stabs down. I hear a woman’s screams. An angry chatter rolls through the crowd, but Athold’s knights advance their horses and the noise stops. Everything but the screams, which subside to a low sobbing, as if someone’s heart’s been torn out.
‘Now you don’t need to worry about his inheritance.’
The helmet moves away. The spear-tip rises again, streaked with blood.
One by one, the villagers come forward and swear fealty to Athold. I can’t see, but I imagine they have to take it kneeling in the mud beside the still-bleeding corpse. A terrible dread hangs over the village. It’s not Athold they fear any more, but Guy. In a month or a year’s time, if he wins this war, he’ll sit on his horse in front of them and demand fealty, and someone else’s son will have to die as an example.
The gallery floor creaks. A gap-toothed man in a floppy cap has come round behind and is staring at us in shock. I put a finger to my lips and wave him to be quiet.
But he still has mud on his knees from swearing loyalty to Athold. He knows how to impress his new lord.
‘It’s Guy’s son.’
We race across the road and down a lane to the mill. Hooves pummel the ground behind us. I’m running so hard my heart might burst, but the weight of my armour holds me back. I see the river in front of me. The hooves drum in my ears. Then we’re on the weir, running across the treacherous planks so fast we don’t have time to fall. A spear clatters off one of the stone piers, and I look back.
Athold’s men have pulled up at the water’s edge. The river’s too fast and deep to cross, and their mounts would never manage the weir. They’ll have to go down to the ford, cross, ride back. It gives us a head start.
But the ford isn’t far, and by the time we’ve gathered our horses from the willow stand we’ve lost precious minutes. We follow William’s tracks, back up the hill and out of the mist towards Hautfort. It’s open heathland here, good riding country.
A horn sounds behind us. Looking back, I see five horsemen coming over the crest of the hill. They rise out of the mist like waves from the sea. The tips of their lances glint in the sunlight. Athold’s seen Jocelin: he knows if he can catch him now, he’ll have Guy checkmated.
I know where I fit on this chessboard — a front-rank pawn, blocking the way to the more valuable pieces. I turn my back and ride. I’m galloping, standing in my stirrups crouched low over the saddle. The horse’s mane billows back in my face. Something flies through the air to my right, an arrow. I’m riding so fast I could almost outpace it: they won’t get through my armour, but they might yet injure the horses. I kick my mount again, though he’s giving everything he can.
A low wall approaches. My mount clears it with a clean bound, but the horse behind isn’t so lucky. I hear an animal scream and the clatter of stone; when I turn back, a black horse is writhing on the ground, hooves flailing. Jocelin lies outstretched behind him.
I only have a split second to make the choice, and I don’t hesitate. I would happily see Jocelin trampled into the mud under Athold’s hooves, but Guy would never forgive it. I rein in my horse, turn, and charge towards the pursuing riders.
There are four of them, with another further back. I aim for the smallest and lower my spear. The knight draws his sword and spurs his horse faster.
It’s different from practising in the orchard. Apple trees don’t move: here, everything happens twice as fast. The wind makes my eyes tear; I can feel the ash-shaft hard against my palm. He lifts his shield. I aim my spear. I try to remember everything Gornemant said.
And then I’m past. I’ve missed him — I don’t know how. Was it cowardice? Did I shy away at the crucial moment, fail my first test as a knight? I’ve no time to think. There’s another rider ahead. He wasn’t expecting me to break through: his shield’s on his back and his sword still in its scabbard.
I’m not going to fail again. I raise my spear and try to hold it steady against the rise and fall of the horse. Everything is aligned: my eyes, my breath, the spear tip, the knight’s exposed face. Gornemant wouldn’t approve — he says you should aim for the body, the biggest target — but I don’t want to unhorse my enemy. I want to kill him.
This time I don’t shy away. The spear strikes and sinks in, so deep there’s no chance to pull it free. I have to let go or I’ll be yanked off my horse. My arm’s numb, shivering. It’s only later I realise that the lance went clean through his skull and struck the back of his helmet. I wheel my horse and look back.
The knight’s slumped over in his saddle, the spear still implanted in his head like a heron’s beak. Now I can see the device on the shield strapped to his back — a red field and a white bar. Athold’s arms.
The other knights are leaping down from their horses, casting their weapons to the ground, pulling off their helmets. I think Athold’s death must have broken them: then I see a dozen knights cantering towards us. Guy’s at their head on his chestnut charger, his banner floating behind him. He slips out of his saddle and runs to Jocelin, who groans and rubs his head. He’ll live, at least long enough to tell the story of how I saved him.
Surely now Guy will make me a knight.
XXI
‘Come with me.’
There was no preamble, none of the small compliments he usually offered on her dress or her hair. His tone gave nothing away. She couldn’t even see his face as she hurried after him to the lift. Walking out of her office, she saw a small mound of ash on the carpet by the door, and wondered how long Blanchard had been standing there.
They’re listening, Ellie, all the time.
In the lift, he took his keycard from his pocket and slid it in a small slot that Ellie had never noticed before, not the one she normally used. A new light appeared on the panel. For the first time Ellie had seen, the button for the sixth floor was illuminated.
‘Push it.’
Ellie did. Perhaps it was her heightened expectations, but it seemed stiffer than the other buttons, as if there was a great weight behind it. The lift began to move — not up, but down. The lights blinked out their descent. First Floor … Ground Floor … Basement 1 … Basement 2 … and suddenly, back at the top of the list, 6.