as it flew past his knee. He kicked the dying man in the shoulder.
The man’s eyes, red as the reddest harvest moon, flew open. He let out a ghoulish moan, slammed his half-arm onto the ground and tried to push himself away. It was then that I saw the hole in his gut, his entrails oozing out, and the pool of congealed blood beneath him. With cold mercy, Will plunged his sword into the man’s heart, held it there, and waited for him to die.
Like that, I watched a man die. In slow, terrible agony. An Englishman. And I knew then I would see more of death and suffering, of cruelty and greed, of evil and apathy. I fought the urge to turn and ride away. Then I remembered that I was the one who insisted on coming along; no one had demanded it of me. If I ran, if I left this to others, what would they say of me?
I must be strong ... and brave, for I am a king and kings do not cower.
I closed my eyes, gripped my knees to my mount’s ribs, fighting to stay upright until my head stopped reeling and my breathing steadied. Someone called my name. Footsteps plodded on the packed dirt of the road, coming closer. Finally, I forced my eyelids apart.
My uncle, Edmund, Earl of Kent, stood before me, head bare, his shield slung loosely over his left arm and his sword at his hip. “Everything all right, my lord?”
Drawing a lungful of smoky air, I fought back a cough, swallowed to wash back the burning taste of bile and raised my chin. “Fine. Where are they?”
“Headed”—he pointed toward a vague line of hills in the distance—“that way.”
I nodded, suddenly noticing the men who were gathering around me. “Let’s find them, then. Kill the bastards who did this.”
***
For over a week, we followed a trail of smoldering ashes—a trail which grew colder with each passing day. Our supply train was too slow. Paths which might have shortened our journey and put us closer to our quarry were impassable with the cumbersome wagons.
We were encamped outside the town of Bishop Auckland, awaiting the return of a scout, for another cloud of smoke had been spotted to the southwest. The division commanders were summoned to my pavilion. Impatient, I emerged from the suffocating air of the tent to wait outside. Nearby, Will Montagu cupped his hands and dipped them into a bucket of water. He dunked his face into the pool in his palms, and then scrubbed vigorously with his fingertips. I handed him a skin of wine.
“Damn cannons,” Will muttered. He gulped down the drink and handed it back to me, empty. “A team of horses can barely get them up a steep hill at a crawl. And through the marshes?” He scoffed. “Useless things almost sank in one yesterday. Wasted effort to bring them all the way from Hainault.”
“Hainault?” Sir John stepped through a crowd of soldiers, sweat pouring from his broad forehead. He looked questioningly at Will.
Will grinned, held open the tent flap and waved him inside. “I said it’s a good thing you’ve come all the way from Hainault. Doubtless, once we catch up with those dastardly Scots, you’ll give them a good drubbing with those cannons of yours.”
Sir John laughed heartily and pounded Will on the shoulder, then ducked inside.
A sneer curled Will’s lip. I flashed him a warning glare. “Need I remind you of the Count of Hainault’s hospitality during the months we spent at Valenciennes?”
“No, my lord.” With a few deft twists of his fingers, Will had unfastened the buckles of his arm plates. “I’m not at all ungrateful. Just smart enough to know when to cut loose the stone dragging me underwater, that’s all. Do us all a favor and convince them of that.” He inclined his head toward Kent and Mortimer, then gathered up his weapons from the ground and left.
I went inside and a moment later Norfolk joined us. Mortimer flicked open a map and laid it on the small table in the center of the pavilion. I bent over it, studying the names of the rivers, towns and villages
The man’s eyes, red as the reddest harvest moon, flew open. He let out a ghoulish moan, slammed his half-arm onto the ground and tried to push himself away. It was then that I saw the hole in his gut, his entrails oozing out, and the pool of congealed blood beneath him. With cold mercy, Will plunged his sword into the man’s heart, held it there, and waited for him to die.
Like that, I watched a man die. In slow, terrible agony. An Englishman. And I knew then I would see more of death and suffering, of cruelty and greed, of evil and apathy. I fought the urge to turn and ride away. Then I remembered that I was the one who insisted on coming along; no one had demanded it of me. If I ran, if I left this to others, what would they say of me?
I must be strong ... and brave, for I am a king and kings do not cower.
I closed my eyes, gripped my knees to my mount’s ribs, fighting to stay upright until my head stopped reeling and my breathing steadied. Someone called my name. Footsteps plodded on the packed dirt of the road, coming closer. Finally, I forced my eyelids apart.
My uncle, Edmund, Earl of Kent, stood before me, head bare, his shield slung loosely over his left arm and his sword at his hip. “Everything all right, my lord?”
Drawing a lungful of smoky air, I fought back a cough, swallowed to wash back the burning taste of bile and raised my chin. “Fine. Where are they?”
“Headed”—he pointed toward a vague line of hills in the distance—“that way.”
I nodded, suddenly noticing the men who were gathering around me. “Let’s find them, then. Kill the bastards who did this.”
***
For over a week, we followed a trail of smoldering ashes—a trail which grew colder with each passing day. Our supply train was too slow. Paths which might have shortened our journey and put us closer to our quarry were impassable with the cumbersome wagons.
We were encamped outside the town of Bishop Auckland, awaiting the return of a scout, for another cloud of smoke had been spotted to the southwest. The division commanders were summoned to my pavilion. Impatient, I emerged from the suffocating air of the tent to wait outside. Nearby, Will Montagu cupped his hands and dipped them into a bucket of water. He dunked his face into the pool in his palms, and then scrubbed vigorously with his fingertips. I handed him a skin of wine.
“Damn cannons,” Will muttered. He gulped down the drink and handed it back to me, empty. “A team of horses can barely get them up a steep hill at a crawl. And through the marshes?” He scoffed. “Useless things almost sank in one yesterday. Wasted effort to bring them all the way from Hainault.”
“Hainault?” Sir John stepped through a crowd of soldiers, sweat pouring from his broad forehead. He looked questioningly at Will.
Will grinned, held open the tent flap and waved him inside. “I said it’s a good thing you’ve come all the way from Hainault. Doubtless, once we catch up with those dastardly Scots, you’ll give them a good drubbing with those cannons of yours.”
Sir John laughed heartily and pounded Will on the shoulder, then ducked inside.
A sneer curled Will’s lip. I flashed him a warning glare. “Need I remind you of the Count of Hainault’s hospitality during the months we spent at Valenciennes?”
“No, my lord.” With a few deft twists of his fingers, Will had unfastened the buckles of his arm plates. “I’m not at all ungrateful. Just smart enough to know when to cut loose the stone dragging me underwater, that’s all. Do us all a favor and convince them of that.” He inclined his head toward Kent and Mortimer, then gathered up his weapons from the ground and left.
I went inside and a moment later Norfolk joined us. Mortimer flicked open a map and laid it on the small table in the center of the pavilion. I bent over it, studying the names of the rivers, towns and villages
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