Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [119]
Austin Grey knew who they were before he saw the white fleur de lis on the ensign, or the other standard they carried of blue and silver and red, which was quite clearly not a French blazon.
Lymond also knew. Even at that distance, he could recognize the men whom he himself had led into battle, and the four men once his own henchmen: Blyth and Blacklock; Hislop and Abernethy.
The shock of surprise drew the blood from his skin: even Austin saw it, rounding on Lymond in that first, furious second. What he missed was the suffusion of anger that followed it: an anger terrifying because it could find no expression.
Afterwards, Francis Crawford found that in those first moments all the force of his fury had turned, senselessly, towards trying to burst the immutable wire of his bonds. At the time, he sat bound on his horse, his reins gripped in Austin Grey’s hands, and said, ‘You may think you can ride over them, but they’ve got crossbows. Your men aren’t going to like that. Or swords ripping upwards as they pass. And there are trees ahead: that, of course, will be where the horsemen are. You may want to ride on, dear boy, but your men are going to think differently.…’
It was doubtful if all of it reached the ears of Austin Grey and his men, but some of it did. It no more than endorsed their own opinion. Austin had ordered them to gallop at the line of footsoldiers, but the line of footsoldiers looked far too formidable. Instead, the escort from Ham slowed, hesitated, broke gallop, and swerving, bore to the right.
Ahead of them, another line of men rose from the ground. And behind, yet another.
‘Christ,’ said Francis Crawford with interest. ‘They’ve got out two companies. You’re in a box, Austin. Your uncle will be cross, but we shall tell your mother all about ransoms. And you can learn how to bed an unmarried girl, Turkish fashion. I’ll show you, on Philippa.’
Austin Grey heard it as he thundered over the rough ground, dragging the other horse with him. His troop had split up, against all his orders. One by one, as they left him, the French bolts whined through the air and picked them off. He had tried to tell them. The French wanted Lymond. If they kept close to him, they would come to no harm.
And now he himself and only a handful of others were still gathered round Crawford, keeping the prisoner’s body between themselves and the crossbows and archers. Silent weapons, not to rouse the near-by garrisons. It had all been planned, all thought out; all most carefully executed.
A man fell on his right, and another. Two had over-ridden the French and reached safety, or had been allowed to escape since there was only one man they wanted. And it now seemed likely that they would free Francis Crawford. That he would return, malicious, triumphant to the fleshpots, to lead the French armies against whatever target they had now chosen—a target which was unlikely to be Calais. To …
‘I’ll show you, on Philippa,’ said that lascivious, bantering voice, and Grey turned, his blade in his hands as the enemy came rushing towards him, their steel out, their hands outspread for his bridle.
Francis Crawford watched the younger man’s sword coming towards him. With Austin’s hand hard on the hilt it flashed down to his heart, and then faltered.
‘You bloody virgin!’ said Lymond; and bringing his eyes up, hard and cold, added something further.
Austin had only to lean on the sword. He had only to let it follow its course and his honour and Philippa’s would be avenged; his uncle’s enemy slain, his nation preserved, his heritage vindicated. And Philippa, tied for ever to this one, hated man, would be at liberty.
And because that was not how he prayed Philippa would come to him, Austin lifted his sword and with his free hand flung the reins of Lymond’s horse in the other man’s face. Then Lord Grey’s nephew turned into almost certain death, and head up, faced the armed men surrounding him.
‘Let him through,’ Lymond said, and his voice, to Jerott, listening, was suddenly threadbare with tiredness. ‘He may as well fail to kill Frenchmen