Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [396]
The soldiers round the Priory of St Mary’s realised that, very quickly.
The cavalry might be approaching at speed, but there was still time for betrayed men to retaliate. Jamie Boyd started forward, his face blanched, and then, with a look of bitter hatred, flung himself off with the riderless horses. The men already inside the compound, now shouting, had begun to hurry, some drawing their swords. One of the nuns started to run and was killed outright by a vicious slash from a rider; the other was hurled to the ground. Some of the foot-soldiers snatched up the torches and began to fling them against whatever would burn, or took their bows and shot randomly as they made for the gates. In the upper floors of the Priory, the few bowmen still left snatched up their weapons and began to shoot downwards. Below, the Prioresses stood rigid, until pulled back, with a curse, by Kilmirren. Crackbene thrust his way out and started to run towards Nicholas, but was immediately set upon by two men. St Pol drew his sword and proceeded, calmly, to help him. Jordan, who had been standing transfixed in the doorway, disappeared and returned, panting, with Simon de St Pol’s sword on his shoulder. Then he looked for his father.
It was a long way from the door to the gate, where escaping men were thrusting past their own captain. The Bishop, nearest the van, had scorned to run when the unrest began but, setting his teeth, had lifted the long, solid weight of his crozier and brandished it threateningly. A pike, dashed through the air, had sent him flying. Next, before they too could run, Adorne and Nicholas had been seized and forced before Purves.
In fact, Adorne had made no attempt to escape. He had looked up and spoken clearly and simply. ‘I don’t know who they are. We have kept faith. So has the King.’
Purves had gazed down. Another firebrand, Nicholas had called him. Although unlike his friend Jardine in feature, there was a great similarity. The face, the dogged, sick face, of the fanatic. Purves did not even draw his own sword. He simply said, ‘Kill them,’ and turned, and spurred his horse out of the gate.
The men who laid hands on Adorne were of the simple kind Applegarth had described: solidly muscled and greedy. Nicholas was a big man, trained to war, and at present possessed, to the point of insanity, with one purpose. They cursed, overthrown at first by his strength, and he almost got to Adorne. But then three or four more fell upon him, with blow upon blow to his body and head, and held him upright as he struggled still, tearing off everything of value he had; but without as yet using their axes. Axes caused damage, and were kept for the last, against valueless flesh.
They had done the same to Adorne. The collar of honour had gone, and the furred robe and jewelled jacket beneath it, and the Unicorn ring, so like the King’s, but for the small difference: Para Tutum, in legend. The King, for whom the ring’s owner was dying. They threw their victim to the ground when they had what they wanted, slashing his lower limbs first, so that he couldn’t have risen. Lying face down in the dark, in his torn shirt and hose, he must have been only half conscious by then, and perhaps hardly felt the stab over the shoulder-blade that travelled inwards and down, to the heart. Then they rolled him over and opened his skull with one blow.
He lived for a moment, before the blood rolled down and closed the eyes looking at Nicholas. The look held everything he was trying to say, although he only breathed two words. ‘I wish …’
The men drew back. Nicholas didn’t see them. He stood in the grasp of his captors and was aware of nothing until he heard a great scream, in his son’s voice. Then he wrenched his head round.
Calling his name, Jordan was running towards him, his face lowering and white, Simon’s great sword held two-handed, pointing forward. Arrows were falling. Other men