Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [49]
We moved with the others until I saw the village they were about to strike. It consisted of some fifteen small stone houses on a hillside, set so close together I was reminded of a flock of huddled sheep. Tilled fields lay below on flat land. The houses, built of russet stone, had large wooden doors braced with iron fittings. Roofs were of red tile. Windows were small, without covering. I think I saw a little church. The air was gray, the fields dull green.
Though drizzling, perhaps fifteen people—men, women, and children—were in the field before the village. They looked no different from English peasants: boots, brown tunics, caps of muted color. One man was using an ox to break the soil with a wheeled plow. The rest were also working the earth with steady thrusts of spades. I might as well have been in my own English home.
We three were ordered to remain where we were—behind the soldiers—and observe. Our guard stood closest to Troth—as if she were the prize.
Before us, the muddy soldiers were drawn up in a long line. Led by Dudley, they began to move forward. As they did, a cock crowed. I shivered with fright.
There was nothing forceful or rushed in the soldiers’ forward advance. Instead, they moved with a severe steadiness that bespoke their harrowing intent. In the center of the line came the five archers, bows in hand, each with an arrow nocked.
“Bear!” I said, “They are—”
“Be quiet!” snapped our guard.
“God have mercy,” whispered Bear, and made the sign of the cross. Troth started to cover her eyes, but was so transfixed she did not do so.
The soldiers were no more than a hundred yards from the village when one of the field women stood to stretch her back. In so doing, she happened to glance round. Seeing the soldiers coming, she let out a shriek, hoisted her tunic, and ran. Startled, the other villagers looked up. Tools were dropped or flung away. The ox was abandoned. The peasants scrambled toward their houses.
Drawing bowstrings to their ears, the archers loosed their arrows. I watched—amazed—as each archer sent off some ten arrows in almost no time at all. The arrows flew in great, high arcs with a thin, hishing sound—only to plunge with terrible speed. Five people fell.
Even as they dropped, Richard Dudley raised his sword. He and the two horsemen galloped forward. The other soldiers—save the cook and the one who guarded us—dashed forward, swords in hand, bellowing as they went. Anyone who stood in their way was struck down.
Terrified people burst from houses, trying to escape. A few attempted to stand firm with sticks or rods. One or two had swords. I think I saw a priest. I heard a bell clang. But the resistance lasted no more than moments. All were over-186whelmed. My own eyes saw some two dozen killed, mostly men, but a few women. At least two children. The priest as well.
I sank to my knees, horrified. Troth began to cry. Bear swore mightily.
Our guard laughed.
There was more. As I looked on, the soldiers began kicking doors open, moving in and out of houses, taking what they chose. They met no opposition. Mostly they took food and drink. There were too, or so I heard, a few coins stolen, perhaps some weapons. The plunder was heaped into the cart that the cook had guided to the village center to receive the goods.
Butchery and looting complete, Dudley and his free company marched off, leaving the living to bemoan their fate. As they trudged along the muddy road, the soldiers talked brightly, boasting with mirth of their martial deeds, their faces streaked with helmet rust and blood. Wine was drunk. Some men staggered. A stolen ox, tethered to the cart, was led along. Once, twice, he bellowed.
I hardly knew what to think or say. The high spirits of the soldiers brought me the deepest pain. Bear spoke not at all. Troth, by my side, now and again took my hand. That hand was cold, and trembled.
I turned to Bear more than once. All I could ask was, “Why?”
“We’ll talk later,” he muttered and cast a darting glance at the men around us by way of warning. I said