King's Man by Angus Donald Read Free Book Online Page B

shoulder, that the lad Thomas had armed himself with a kindling axe and had joined the other local men running behind the horsemen. I had no time to tell him to return to the hall as we surged out into the night towards the enemy.
    We horsemen cantered out of the gate which lay at the southeast of the castle and turned left, spurring ahead of the infantryto hurtle into the southern section of Murdac’s camp. My chest was thrumming with the black thrill of battle, the unparalleled feeling of having a well-trained horse between my legs, a stout shield on my arm and a long spear couched under my right elbow. I knew that our chances were slim, but I felt little fear that weird, wild night. We were riding to the charge; and battle, with all its mad-flecked, God-cursed, sky-soaring joy, was upon us.
    A terrified picket, a sentry in red and black, turned to run back into the camp when he saw us coming out of the night: a mob of galloping horsemen screaming like devils and heading straight for him. As he turned to run, a grey and reddish blur streaked past me, one of Tuck’s enormous battle-trained wolf-hounds. The animal leapt at the running man, his giant jaws opening and snapping shut, crunching deep into the meat of his right leg, and then they were both rolling on the dark turf, a tangle of grey fur and flapping black surcoat, appalling screams for mercy and bone-grinding growls. And then I was past them, and there were sleep-shackled enemies blundering from between the tents to my front, only half visible in the blackness. I lined up the horse and galloped straight at a man-at-arms who was struggling into a leather-backed mail shirt, his arms up above his head, his face covered by the hauberk, and I screamed ‘Westbury!’ as I drove my right arm forward and plunged the lance-tip deep into his unprotected doughy belly.
    He dropped immediately and seemed to curl like a snake around my spear. But I managed to twist my wrist and pull the point free of the man’s guts as I thundered past. I had only just levelled the spear again when I found I was facing another enemy, a mounted man-at-arms in a boiled-leather cuirasse andhelmet, screaming hate and waving a heavy mace at me. I rose in the saddle and my lance jerked forward and punched through the stiff leather and into his chest, the blood-smeared point given its enormous killing power by my galloping horse. He was a dead man before he was even within range to strike a blow. Releasing my spear, leaving it bobbing madly from his torso, his blood greasing the front of his cuirasse, I hauled out my sword. I could hear battle-charged shouts behind me as our assorted footmen tore into the south end of the camp, hacking and howling, stamping and stabbing at their foes, wiping out all in their path like a wave of human fury crashing on to a beach. Leaving them to their bloody business, I was intent on reaching the centre of the sweep of tents where I knew Murdac’s shelter to be. I longed to face him, to take my sword to him in the joyous carnage of battle, and send him to Hell where he belonged. But as I urged the horse forward, slicing my sword down into the neck of a passing man-at-arms and batting a terrified crossbowman out of my path with the flat of the blade, I could see that Robin’s plan was already working. Scores of men-at-arms in black and red were streaming from the camp and away eastwards into the darkness, some crying out loud to God in their terror, others saving their breath to make good their escape.
    I guided my horse round the side of a broad, low tent and came face to face with a terrifying apparition: a giant man on a huge horse, a black monstrous shape lit only by splashes of firelight but seeming to loom over me. He had a great doubleheaded axe in one enormous fist, and I could see that it was dripping with fresh blood, and the head on those giant shoulders was that of a massive stallion, its nostrils seemingly breathingfire. I could not help myself but I