Read Online The King’s Assassin by Angus Donald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Angus Donald
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And keep your shield up, head down at all times. Don’t try anything foolish.’
Claes nodded his grizzled head: ‘We’ll keep ’em out, sir, don’t you worry. Right, boys, on me…’ and he led his little section away and into a huddle.
I walked the few yards up on to the bridge where the archers were stringing their bows, strapping on wrist-guards, and inspecting their shafts for warping.
‘Nice day for it,’ said Mastin, the leader of Robin’s bowmen, a sly thief from Cheshire who I’d known since I was a boy. He was a short, square, hairy man, as bald as a monk on top but furred like a monkey from his beard downwards.
I looked up at the sky. It was almost completely obscured by swirling grey smoke. The heat was monstrous. It felt as if we were baking in a vast oven.
‘Well,’ said Mastin, seeing my incredulous look, ‘it could be raining. The wet plays merry hell with my bow-cord.’
I gave a grating cough that might almost have passed for a laugh, and slapped the older man on his brawny shoulder.
‘No fancy business now, Mastin,’ I said, ‘just kill anyone who comes out of those streets and into the square, all right? We’ll hold them off and you kill them. Clear?’
But Mastin was already drawing his long, very powerful yew bow, a yard-long, wicked-tipped arrow already nocked. I jerked around and saw a score or so of men-at-arms in boiled leather armour come dashing out of the smoke from the easternmost street that fed into the space before the bridge.
The arrow whirred by my ear and over the heads of our shield wall; one of the enemy men-at-arms was instantly skewered through the chest. At that distance, no more than fifty yards, the arrow easily punched through his leather cuirass and slammed him back against the white-plastered wall of a house, pinning him there. His legs kicked as he wriggled and tugged at the wand of ash that nailed him to the wall.
His comrades faltered, hesitated, some taking a few steps forward, others stopping and beginning to edge back. Some turned, shouted incomprehensibly into the thick smoke behind them.
‘Feather ’em, lads,’ said Mastin quietly. ‘Don’t be shy.’
There was a creaking sound like an old oak door opening, as forty yew bows were drawn. A cloud of arrows fizzed over our heads like a flock of lethal birds. They lanced into the French men-at-arms; seven or eight dropped immediately, some struck several times. Another volley sped overhead, five more men dropped, and the rest of the enemy sprinted back into the smoke-filled lane behind them and disappeared.
‘That the sort of thing you were looking for, sir?’ said Mastin.
‘Just so,’ I said. And this time my laughter was genuine.
I walked down the short slope of the bridge to the shield wall and strode along behind the second rank: ‘See how it’s done, lads?’ I bellowed so that every man in the line could hear me. ‘All you have to do is hold tight. Keep the enemy off this bridge, maintain the line and let the archers do the killing for us. We’ve got the easy job. Just stand firm here for a little while and then it’s home to England and—’
I stopped abruptly as out of the smoke curtain across the eastern road entrance, a mass of horsemen erupted like steel-clad monsters belching from the mouth of Hell.
It was only a conroi of French knights and sergeants – about thirty men – but they seemed like a ravening horde a thousand strong. They were all in mail, mounted on big destriers, with twelve-foot steel-tipped lances couched. They came straight at us as the gallop, their iron hooves clanging against the cobbles, their war cries echoing eerily loud through the hot, close air.
‘Stand fast,’ I shouted, hauling Fidelity from its scabbard. ‘Stand fast, men.’
Over our heads the arrows were hissing again. They smacked into horse flesh and punched through mail, emptying saddles, causing the horses to rear and scream in pain and fear. A company of horses will not
Claes nodded his grizzled head: ‘We’ll keep ’em out, sir, don’t you worry. Right, boys, on me…’ and he led his little section away and into a huddle.
I walked the few yards up on to the bridge where the archers were stringing their bows, strapping on wrist-guards, and inspecting their shafts for warping.
‘Nice day for it,’ said Mastin, the leader of Robin’s bowmen, a sly thief from Cheshire who I’d known since I was a boy. He was a short, square, hairy man, as bald as a monk on top but furred like a monkey from his beard downwards.
I looked up at the sky. It was almost completely obscured by swirling grey smoke. The heat was monstrous. It felt as if we were baking in a vast oven.
‘Well,’ said Mastin, seeing my incredulous look, ‘it could be raining. The wet plays merry hell with my bow-cord.’
I gave a grating cough that might almost have passed for a laugh, and slapped the older man on his brawny shoulder.
‘No fancy business now, Mastin,’ I said, ‘just kill anyone who comes out of those streets and into the square, all right? We’ll hold them off and you kill them. Clear?’
But Mastin was already drawing his long, very powerful yew bow, a yard-long, wicked-tipped arrow already nocked. I jerked around and saw a score or so of men-at-arms in boiled leather armour come dashing out of the smoke from the easternmost street that fed into the space before the bridge.
The arrow whirred by my ear and over the heads of our shield wall; one of the enemy men-at-arms was instantly skewered through the chest. At that distance, no more than fifty yards, the arrow easily punched through his leather cuirass and slammed him back against the white-plastered wall of a house, pinning him there. His legs kicked as he wriggled and tugged at the wand of ash that nailed him to the wall.
His comrades faltered, hesitated, some taking a few steps forward, others stopping and beginning to edge back. Some turned, shouted incomprehensibly into the thick smoke behind them.
‘Feather ’em, lads,’ said Mastin quietly. ‘Don’t be shy.’
There was a creaking sound like an old oak door opening, as forty yew bows were drawn. A cloud of arrows fizzed over our heads like a flock of lethal birds. They lanced into the French men-at-arms; seven or eight dropped immediately, some struck several times. Another volley sped overhead, five more men dropped, and the rest of the enemy sprinted back into the smoke-filled lane behind them and disappeared.
‘That the sort of thing you were looking for, sir?’ said Mastin.
‘Just so,’ I said. And this time my laughter was genuine.
I walked down the short slope of the bridge to the shield wall and strode along behind the second rank: ‘See how it’s done, lads?’ I bellowed so that every man in the line could hear me. ‘All you have to do is hold tight. Keep the enemy off this bridge, maintain the line and let the archers do the killing for us. We’ve got the easy job. Just stand firm here for a little while and then it’s home to England and—’
I stopped abruptly as out of the smoke curtain across the eastern road entrance, a mass of horsemen erupted like steel-clad monsters belching from the mouth of Hell.
It was only a conroi of French knights and sergeants – about thirty men – but they seemed like a ravening horde a thousand strong. They were all in mail, mounted on big destriers, with twelve-foot steel-tipped lances couched. They came straight at us as the gallop, their iron hooves clanging against the cobbles, their war cries echoing eerily loud through the hot, close air.
‘Stand fast,’ I shouted, hauling Fidelity from its scabbard. ‘Stand fast, men.’
Over our heads the arrows were hissing again. They smacked into horse flesh and punched through mail, emptying saddles, causing the horses to rear and scream in pain and fear. A company of horses will not
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