Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [55]
The cook heard me. Startled, he turned about. Seeing what I’d done, he gawked for a moment. In that brief time, I pulled the rope that bound me tight, swung the sword down, and chopped at it with all my strength. It split apart.
I was free.
But now the cook snatched up his sword and leaped toward me.
I was no swordsman, much less a fighter. I could only do such things as Bear had tried to teach me. What’s more, no matter the cook’s intent, I had no desire of harming the little man. Escape was all.
Yet the cook would have at me, swinging wildly with his sword, swearing vile oaths, vowing he would kill me. But as God was kind, I found myself quick enough to parry his efforts with my sword. When he fell back, ready to strike again, I grasped the handle of my sword in both hands and swung out at him as hard as I was able. Even as I did, he also struck so that our swords met with an ear-breaking clang of metal. The force of my blow caught him unprepared. His sword was knocked entirely out of his hands, where it fell some paces away.
Red-faced with rage, he gave not an inch but snatched up his dagger and came at me furiously. I retreated, holding the sword before me. “Get back!” I screamed.
Trying to outwit me, he sidestepped, and then, with dagger raised and poised to strike, he threw himself at me. In hasty defense, I swung round, lifted my sword toward him—so that he ran himself upon it.
He hung there, openmouthed, in skewered surprise.
Terrified by what I’d done, I jumped back, bloody sword in hand, and stood there as he fell to his knees, blood gushing from his wound and mouth. Eyes rolling, he mouthed some garbled words—might they have been holy prayers!—then fell forward, face into the earth.
Horrified, my stomach heaving, so dizzy with fright I could hardly stand, I was compelled to lean upon the nearby wagon. “Forgive me, forgive me …” I murmured, and though I tried to make the sign of the cross, my hand shook so I could not.
I waited one more dreadful moment, gulping for air, afraid to look at the dead man. Then I recalled myself, turned, and ran, the death-dripping sword still in hand.
Trying not to think of what had just happened, I charged to the crest of the hill where we had stood before and looked down at the round village of Bources. The view was much the same, and yet in process of much alteration.
Dudley and his men were marching in a line toward the castle, banneret fluttering. They were going very slowly, deliberately, even slower than when they attacked the village.
I looked for Bear, and saw him easily enough, he being larger than the rest. He was close to Dudley, held by the rope that kept him a hostage to Troth’s success.
At first I was puzzled by the soldiers slow advance. Then I realized it was only what Dudley had schemed—to show himself and his force, thereby bringing all the opposition garrison to the castle, away from the church.
Sure enough, I could see considerable movement on the castle ramparts. Soldiers were rushing about behind the crenellation. Horns were being blown, bleating shrill alarms. A bell began to sound.
The peasants in the field stopped, listened, and began to run toward the village.
I turned toward the church and the fortified tower. The church doors swung open. A body of soldiers and a priest burst out. From the way their faces were set, I could see they were looking toward Dudley and his men. Even as I watched, the priest and the soldiers raced across the drawbridge—going, I presumed, to defend and be protected by the castle. As soon as they passed, the drawbridge lifted. Not all the soldiers went. A few returned to the church. The doors shut.
It was all as Dudley had planned.
But were there more soldiers within the church? How many would there