Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [319]
He and Andro arrived at the edge of the ravine together, rashly confident of a welcome from whoever was there. With any luck, it would be the party which had killed the four guards, on the way to rescuing them both. Even if it wasn’t, and some soldiers from Heaton appeared, they had no reason to harm two of Hector’s men, fleeing unknown attackers. And if, best of all, the rescue party was there, and they all got away before the Heaton men came, the Heaton men would assume that their two builders had died with the guards, and all four had been snatched by the river.
It was with reasonable confidence, therefore, that Nicholas clawed his way in the drumming rain to the edge of the bank of the Till and looked about him at a landscape that at first appeared to be empty.
Behind, from the direction of Heaton, nothing moved but the river.
In front, it seemed at first to be the same. Then, far ahead, there was a glint between trees, followed by a deadly whicker close to his face. Nicholas heard the arrow arrive, and the thud of its impact. At first, he did not know where he had been hit. Then he realised, from the gasp beside him, that it was Andro who had been struck, and who was lurching forward beside him in a welter of blood.
He thought at first that Wodman was dying. Catching him; rolling with him back over the edge of the bank, Nicholas determined that the wound was bad, but could wait for attention. It would have to. He took his bow and lifted himself along the lip of the bank, until he could see what was happening.
Four English guards had been killed. No one but Scots would do that. If they were now trying to kill fellow Scots, it was simply because they weren’t Adorne’s men, and didn’t know who Andro was.
It was an interesting dilemma. If he stood up, they’d kill him before he had a chance to explain. If he did nothing, the Heaton men would arrive, bent on revenge for the four men they had lost. The Scots would die, and he and Andro would lose their chance of escape.
Andro, who still had his wits, was slowly binding a kerchief round his thigh, where the arrow had struck. The cloth became instantly red. Nicholas said, ‘Could you swim?’
Wodman didn’t even look up. Beneath the broken nose was a sketch of a grin. ‘Not in that river,’ he said.
‘Nor any other,’ someone observed. An elegant man, it proved to be, standing just within earshot on the same side of the ravine, with a bow in his hand. He wore no armour, but a plated helm on his head, the glint of which had caught the light when he shot and injured Wodman. Even though the thick, fair hair was concealed, there was no mistaking the carriage, or the man.
Simon de St Pol.
Four of them, the archer had said. Of whom the archer himself and his friend had killed two.
Nicholas closed his eyes, and then opened them slowly. Wodman said, ‘He is there, Nicol. Henry is there.’
And so he was, stepping out to stand beside Simon, young and lissom and stern. You could see him draw breath; and it was as if he had made himself speak. ‘We can’t let you escape. You’re a traitor.’
Simon turned his head to look, with resignation, at the speaker. ‘You are proposing to talk to him, Henry?’
Nicholas said, ‘We are your prisoners. We are not traitors, but that can be proved later. Take us with you. Bind our hands. We can’t harm you.’
Simon laughed. ‘You have a bow in your hands.’
‘No,’ said Nicholas; and, lifting it, turned to the river. Then he stopped, looking at Andro.
Andro said, ‘Throw it.’ Above the flattened nose and drawn skin, his eyes were open and clear. So Nicholas did.
There were boulders leaping and wheeling now in the torrent, and parts of whole trees. The bow vanished at once. The roar was as loud as the sound of their voices. Nicholas raised his, calling to Simon, but kept it even and calm.
‘Let