pretended to be deaf. He tried to ease his fury with anticipation of the king’s reaction when he heard of this injustice, but he could taste the pleasure he’d get from slitting the man’s throat.
As Aimery slouched back up the hill for another load, the man in front of him stumbled. Aimery helped him up. The closest guard sneered but made no objection. The worker’s breathing was labored, his eyes glassy.
“He needs rest, lord,” Aimery mumbled.
“No rest,” said the guard, and aimed the wineskin at his mouth.
Aimery helped the peasant fill his sling with rocks, putting in as few as he dared. It was a mercy they were hauling the heavy weight downhill, but he doubted this man would last much longer. What would happen when he failed? If the guards had any sense, they’d take some care of their beasts of burden, but scum have no brains. They probably thought there was a never-ending supply of slaves.
They set off back down the hill, the man began to weave. Aimery did his best to help, going in front and guiding him, but suddenly the peasant stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, his head hanging like the exhausted beast of burden he’d become.
The pot-bellied guard stirred himself to his feet and cracked his whip. “Up, you misbegotten swine. Up!” The man twitched but slumped down again.
Even as Aimery dropped his sling of rocks and ran to help, the whip cracked again and bit. The peasant twitched and gave a guttural cry, but even the pain couldn’t move him. The whip whistled and cut again before Aimery reached him.
“Out of the way, dolt!” snarled the guard in French, moving closer, “or there’ll be more of the same for you.” He switched to English. “Move!”
Aimery turned to face the brute, whose heavy paunch and slack face revealed he was poorly trained and exercised. “Mercy, lord,” he said in French.
“An honest word from a worm like you?” The guard jerked his thumb eloquently. “Scat!”
Aimery rose slowly as if befuddled. The guard paid him no more attention and swung his whip back with relish.
Aimery leaped. With an arm round the man’s throat and a knee in his back, he broke his neck. As the man fell, Aimery whipped the sword from his scabbard, grimacing at the clumsy feel of it and the old blood and rust marring the blade. He kicked the body out of the way—scum, as he’d thought—and turned to face the first of the four other guards. He deliberately shambled and held the sword as if he had no idea what to do with it.
A glance showed him Gyrth leaping onto a guard and the peasants standing around terrified. “Don’t let them escape!” he shouted.
“They ain’t going to help you, pig’s swill,” sneered the nearest guard, thinner but still with the belly of self-indulgence. He showed a scant collection of yellow and black teeth. “And I ain’t going to kill you quickly. Not quickly at all . . .”
Aimery raised his sword awkwardly, and the man laughed. “We’ll have you dance with one foot, turd. And then we’ll play blindman’s buff with a real blind man . . .”
As the guard continued his pointless taunting, for he must assume his victim understood little French, Aimery assessed the situation. None of these men could be allowed to live if the villagers were to survive and his identity was to be protected. But the villagers were numb with terror.
Gyrth had killed his guard and taken his sword. The other two Normans were on him, and the sword wasn’t Gyrth’s best weapon. He’d need help.
Aimery swung his sword wildly as an untrained peasant would. The guard howled with laughter. He sidestepped the swing and moved in contemptuously to slice off Aimery’s right arm. Aimery adjusted his grip and slammed his sword up against the other. While the guard was still stunned and his arm tingling numb, Aimery said, “God save you,” in crisp French and decapitated him.
The head on the ground looked profoundly surprised.
Aimery ran over to join the
As Aimery slouched back up the hill for another load, the man in front of him stumbled. Aimery helped him up. The closest guard sneered but made no objection. The worker’s breathing was labored, his eyes glassy.
“He needs rest, lord,” Aimery mumbled.
“No rest,” said the guard, and aimed the wineskin at his mouth.
Aimery helped the peasant fill his sling with rocks, putting in as few as he dared. It was a mercy they were hauling the heavy weight downhill, but he doubted this man would last much longer. What would happen when he failed? If the guards had any sense, they’d take some care of their beasts of burden, but scum have no brains. They probably thought there was a never-ending supply of slaves.
They set off back down the hill, the man began to weave. Aimery did his best to help, going in front and guiding him, but suddenly the peasant stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, his head hanging like the exhausted beast of burden he’d become.
The pot-bellied guard stirred himself to his feet and cracked his whip. “Up, you misbegotten swine. Up!” The man twitched but slumped down again.
Even as Aimery dropped his sling of rocks and ran to help, the whip cracked again and bit. The peasant twitched and gave a guttural cry, but even the pain couldn’t move him. The whip whistled and cut again before Aimery reached him.
“Out of the way, dolt!” snarled the guard in French, moving closer, “or there’ll be more of the same for you.” He switched to English. “Move!”
Aimery turned to face the brute, whose heavy paunch and slack face revealed he was poorly trained and exercised. “Mercy, lord,” he said in French.
“An honest word from a worm like you?” The guard jerked his thumb eloquently. “Scat!”
Aimery rose slowly as if befuddled. The guard paid him no more attention and swung his whip back with relish.
Aimery leaped. With an arm round the man’s throat and a knee in his back, he broke his neck. As the man fell, Aimery whipped the sword from his scabbard, grimacing at the clumsy feel of it and the old blood and rust marring the blade. He kicked the body out of the way—scum, as he’d thought—and turned to face the first of the four other guards. He deliberately shambled and held the sword as if he had no idea what to do with it.
A glance showed him Gyrth leaping onto a guard and the peasants standing around terrified. “Don’t let them escape!” he shouted.
“They ain’t going to help you, pig’s swill,” sneered the nearest guard, thinner but still with the belly of self-indulgence. He showed a scant collection of yellow and black teeth. “And I ain’t going to kill you quickly. Not quickly at all . . .”
Aimery raised his sword awkwardly, and the man laughed. “We’ll have you dance with one foot, turd. And then we’ll play blindman’s buff with a real blind man . . .”
As the guard continued his pointless taunting, for he must assume his victim understood little French, Aimery assessed the situation. None of these men could be allowed to live if the villagers were to survive and his identity was to be protected. But the villagers were numb with terror.
Gyrth had killed his guard and taken his sword. The other two Normans were on him, and the sword wasn’t Gyrth’s best weapon. He’d need help.
Aimery swung his sword wildly as an untrained peasant would. The guard howled with laughter. He sidestepped the swing and moved in contemptuously to slice off Aimery’s right arm. Aimery adjusted his grip and slammed his sword up against the other. While the guard was still stunned and his arm tingling numb, Aimery said, “God save you,” in crisp French and decapitated him.
The head on the ground looked profoundly surprised.
Aimery ran over to join the
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