The officer gave out his orders and two troops filed off to the north-east. Then he leaned across his saddle. ‘Listen, Chard, I’d advise you to wait here. From what I hear your back’s in a mess, so you won’t be able to fight. And I guess you won’t want any . .. pleasures. So leave it to me and my men. You agree?’
Chard longed to agree. Instead he shook his head. ‘I will ride in with the attack,’ he said. ‘When it is over I will leave you to your … pleasures.’
‘Only trying to be helpful,’ said the officer, with a wide grin.
They waited until the fifty horsemen had reached their position to the north of the village, then Chard drew his sword. ‘Give the order,’ he told the officer.
‘No prisoners!’ shouted the man. ‘And all the looting to be left until the job is done! Forward!’
Chard wondered briefly if God would ever forgive him for this day, then touched spurs to his mount. The beast leapt forward. The soldiers around him drew their weapons and charged. The men were lighter armoured than he, wearing leather breastplates and no helms, and the mercenaries soon outpaced him, forming three attacking lines.
Chard was some fifteen lengths behind the last man when the first line of mercenaries reached the stream. The woman there dropped her washing and, lifting her heavy skirts, ran back towards the buildings. The raucous cries of the mercenaries filled the air and then the horses galloped into the water, sending up glittering fountains that caught the sunlight and shone like diamonds.
The first line had reached the middle of the stream when disaster struck. Horses whinnied in fear and pain as they fell headlong, tipping their riders over their necks. For a moment only Chard was stunned.
Tripwire! staked beneath the water line. My God, they were ready for us!
The riders of the second line dragged on their reins, but they collided with their downed comrades in a confused mass. Chard pulled up his mount. Experienced in battle, he knew that the tripwire was only the beginning. Swiftly he scanned the buildings. There was no sign of a defensive force .. .
And then they were there!
Rising up from behind the low retaining wall, a score of bowmen sent volley after volley of shafts into the milling men. Wounded mercenaries began to scream and run, but long shafts slashed into them, slicing through their pitiful armour.
‘Dismount!’ shouted Chard. ‘Attack on foot!’
Scum though they were, the mercenaries were not afraid to fight. Leaping from their horses they rushed the bowmen, who stood their ground some thirty feet beyond the stream. More than twenty mercenaries went down, but Chard was confident that once hand-to-hand fighting began they would be swept aside by weight of numbers.
Urging his horse to the edge of the stream, he shouted encouragement to his men.
From behind the buildings came a surging mass of fighting men, armed with claymores, scythes, spears and hammers – and women carrying knives and hatchets. They smote the mercenaries’ left flank. Chard saw the baker, Fat Tovi, slash his claymore through the shoulder and chest of a mercenary, and then the white-bearded smith, Grame, grabbed the pox-marked officer by the throat, braining him with his forge hammer.
The mercenaries broke and ran. But there was no escape.
Chard wheeled his horse and galloped along the stream, crossing a small bridge, then riding for the second group. All fifty were waiting as ordered in skirmish formation some twenty yards below the tree line. With these men he could yet turn the battle.
His pain was forgotten as he urged his stallion up the hill.
As Chard came closer he watched with horror as a dozen men pitched from their saddles with arrows jutting from their backs. Horses reared, spilling their riders.
A line of mounted bowmen rode from the trees, shooting as they came: grim, dark men, clothed in black and silver. As they neared the stunned mercenaries they threw aside their bows, drawing shining silver sabres. There were no more than twenty soldiers left. A few of them tried to fight, the others fled.