The Protector's War Page 5

  The rest of the farm's folk came up as the soldiers rested and ate and sipped appreciatively at their cider. That was natural enough as well, a visit being a change in the routine, but it put his teeth on edge—the more who spoke, the more chance of someone letting an unguarded word slip.

  "Good day to you, Artie, mon," Bob said when he emerged from the long cottage, wiping a napkin across his mouth, evidently just finishing dinner. He slapped the corporal on the shoulder. "Tanks again for de harvest work."

  The corporal shrugged. "We're under orders tae he'lp whaur we can, Bob," he said.

  "Yuh still pick me Jamaica Farm to help. Gudrun!" he called, and the blond young woman looked up from chatting with one of the hobelars. "Ninyam an' bockle for dese good men, good and plenty."

  "Yuh here lookin' for Brushwood Men?" the farmer went on as she hurried away to pack food and drink. "Or de dam' leopard? Duppy ting take me sheep, mon."

  "Nae."The corporal's mouth shut like a steel trap. "Fugitives, under warrant o' proscription frae the Crown. Two—Sair Nigel Loring, and his son, Alleyne. There's serious charges, ye ken, agin them and any who harbor 'em."

  He went on to give a description. Bob Bramble mimed surprise; it would have been excessive in someone less given to the flamboyant.

  "Me hear 'bout him prisoned at Woburn," Bramble said, rubbing at his chin and letting the Creole accent grow stronger. "No hear 'bout him es-caaap-ing. Bad business. Me noh quite undastan. Sir Nigel, he good mon, I always hear."

  The corporal's face was expressionless—perhaps a little too stiff—but Nigel thought he caught uneasy looks on some of the archers behind him, and outright scowls from the farm folk. Then his heart skipped a beat as little Diana Bramble stamped out to confront the section leader.

  "Sir Nigel is a good man!" she said shrilly, shaking a finger up at the Orkneyman's face, ignoring his bulk and armor. "You've got no bloody business going around hunting heroes like they was foxes! I wish Sir Nigel and Alleyne were here so they could take their swords and cut you up't You… you loathly bugger't"

  "Diana!" her mother said, reprovingly. "Watch your tongue, my girl!"

  The noncom snorted and scowled, turning away and making a brushing gesture with one hand, as at an annoying fly. Diana's diatribe escalated into a wordless howl and she kicked the soldier—neatly, in the sensitive part of the shin just above his riding boot. She was wearing heavy brogue-style shoes, and there was real conviction behind the hack she gave him.

  "So there!" she shouted, then turned and ran.

  "Ye cheeky peedie whalp!" the noncom shouted, and nearly fell over as he made a grab for her.

  The Orkney accent was suddenly thicker than oatmeal as he hopped in the dust and horse apples of the farmyard, holding his knee. Then he controlled his temper with a visible effort, and stamped the boot down again at the sound of a subdued snicker from behind him. When he whirled to look at his men they braced to attention, motionless except for one still chewing on an apple tart.

  "Are you a cow, then, that ye're chewing a cud, Jones, you daft taffie!" he snapped. "Search the farm! High and low! We've orders," he went on half apologetically, turning back to Bramble. "We'll just tak a keek aboot…"

  One of the farm folk was an older man, the oldest Nigel had seen on Bob's holding; lean, gray and messy-untidy in a way the others weren't despite plain clothes and hard outdoor work. Now he ambled forward and grabbed the corporal by the shoulders.

  "You're sairching?" he said. "For Doris? Have you seen Doris, then? Have you word of her? Have you?"

  "Oh—"

  The corporal bit back something pungent, and didn't quite stiff-arm the older man away; far too many folk who'd lived through the terrible years were a bit wandered in their wits, and it was convention to treat them gently. The graybeard still burst into tears as he staggered back, and Archie MacDonald jumped forward to lead him away as he called more and more loudly for Doris, whoever she was. People milled about talking and gesturing, and the corporal of the detachment looked for a moment as if he'd like to cry himself.

  "Get searchin', I said!" he half screamed, and stamped away towards the house. "They twa're armed and dangerous, remember! Stay in touch and sing out if you see them."

  One of his men stayed to hold the horses. The others split up hurriedly, clapping their helmets on, drawing their swords and taking their bucklers in their left hands. Nigel moved back from the wall with slow, gentle care and caught the eyes of the others, looking over towards the ladder. He and Alleyne moveed towards it, their shields ready on their left arms. Hordle came behind them, an arrow on his string, waiting on one knee with his torso bent, ready to rise and shoot; his face had the hard blankness of an oak board. The big man's friendly smile could make you forget what he was like in action…

  There's no problem unless someone comes up here, Nigel thought. If they do…

  Hordle would take out the one who discovered them, then jump down and put a shaft through the corporal and get the horses running. He and Alleyne would have to hunt down the rest—though a longbow would penetrate even good plate if it hit precisely right, chances were they could overwhelm the patrol if needs must. And they must not let any escape to carry word…

  The thought of cutting down honest English soldiers made his stomach twist, but bringing him in now would give Queen Hallgerda's party at court too much extra leverage. Losing him for good would cost that crew dearly in prestige—and make people less afraid, which they couldn't afford, not being much loved even by their own folk.

  The silence stretched as a soldier walked in through the big double doors. The dimness within was near darkness to eyes fresh from open sunlight, and he tripped and cursed and staggered as he ran into the disassembled threshing machine, windmilling his sword out—you could give yourself a nasty cut if you fell with one in your hand.

  "Sod me if I like this above 'alf," he muttered as he recovered his balance. "If Nigel Loring's a traitor, I'm fuck-ing Queen Hallgerda." He stabbed the sword into a small pile of burlap sacks, then flicked open a big plywood bin of raw wool still in the fleece. "Not in there, are you then? Christ, what an effing waste of time!"

  He looked around, blinking, then went over to the loose-box. Nigel made a conscious effort to control his breathing, ready to step into the open space, hang by his hands and drop the remaining distance to the dirt floor. He'd drop the sword first, and it would be waiting point-down and hilt-up in the dirt…

  "You're a big fellow, aren't you?" the soldier said to Pommers, taking something out of the small canvas haversack on his belt. "Here, 'ave a taste. Better you than that brass-arsed Jock."

  That was probably a carrot, or perhaps an apple; the big gelding crunched enthusiastically, and then whuffled around the soldier in the hopes of something more. Al-leyne's black was less friendly, turning from the other end of the box to cock a suspicious eye at the stranger.

  "You're both big fellows, eh?" the man said thoughtfully.

  He started to look up to the hayloft, then cleared his throat and hitched his belt. "Nobody here, Corporal!" he said cheerfully as he walked out. Then he did look up, and slowly and deliberately winked. "Except enough gear to break your neck if you're not right careful."

  John Hordle eased off on the draw of his great yellow bow. His hazel eyes were coldly intent as they followed the man out into the bright sunlight. So were Nigel's as the patrol reassembled. Gudrun came out with two burlap sacks that bulged promisingly; even more promisingly, one clinked like a stoneware jug tapping against something, and the soldier who strapped it over the packsaddle of the baggage beast smacked his lips. The patrol mounted again and put their mounts up to a canter as they left.

  "Well, did me hear anyone say stop workin'V Bob said, when they'd passed out of sight, bound south.

  The little crowd began to disperse. The master of the farm grabbed one ten-year-old by the arm—his son, from the looks.

  "Anasi, you run quick-quick, climb de big oak. Back when dey out of yuh
sight.'Gudrun, a load fo de guests. Archie—"

  "Think we should move the schedule up, sir?" Hordle said, as the talk drew away from their hiding place.

  Alleyne looked at his father. Nigel nodded. "Definitely. I don't think that man who searched the barn will talk—but I know Tony Knolles will smell a rat. He's the one whose team finally tracked down Sean Donnelly."

  Alleyne's eyebrows went up. "He was in charge of that personally?"

  "Very personally," Nigel said grimly. "Donnelly walked into what he thought was a safe house in Dundalk, just over the Irish border. And there Tony Knolles was waiting, with a sharpened spade—quieter than a gun, you see, didn't want the Garda forced to take notice. Buried young Sean and two of his cell in the garden that night and flitted off, nobody the wiser."

  Hordle snorted. "Good for the shrubbery—probably the first time the Provo bastards were any use. But I see what you mean, sir. We'd best scarper."

  "We had to be careful how much we cleared," Hordle said. "All we had time for, sir, and we couldn't be conspicuous about it, either."

  "You only had a week to prepare," Nigel Loring said, leading the horse out of the narrow laneway.

  It had been a country road for a thousand years before the Change, the Lower End Road from Wavendon to Sal-ford. Nature had reclaimed it since, ripping up the two lanes of tarmac with sprouting seedlings, convolvulus vines with their pink-throated white flowers, and the inevitable bramble; the hawthorn from the roadside hedges had nearly met in the middle, turning the road into a stretch of brush forty feet across and twenty high.

  The old SAS men and their helpers had cleared just enough to let horses pass in single file,, down the center where the vegetation was weakest. Sir Nigel had trouble with the twelve-foot length of his lance, holding it horizontally by the balance more often than not. The burden wore at his arm. It was hot in the green gloom, and above the leaves it was another bright warm day. It was a relief to finally break through as they came into open country where a little wind could leak through the joints in his armor. The field ahead had enough sheer size to keep bramble vines from overrunning everything. They dismounted to hack an overgrown gate free. Nigel paused, panting, as they finally cut the last of the vine and shrub cane free of the wood and hauled it open. He and Alleyne had done most of the work; a suit of plate did have the advantage of making you more or less immune to thorns.

  "MacDonald, you take the spare mounts on to the fox covert there," Nigel said, pointing across the tall grass and weeds.

  "Mi's just down the cutting after, sair," the Scot agreed. "I'll be checking the way's clear, then."

  John Hordle looked southwest, frowning; he popped a blackberry into his mouth with purple-stained fingers, dumped the rest out of his helmet and clapped it on.

  "Thought I heard something, sir, and now I'm sure," he said, as he strung his bow with a twist and wrench. "Don't think the SIDs could have caught us. Didn't look as if they were going to make any pursuit at all. Those hobelars who searched the farm?"

  "There's three lances of the Guard based out of Stowe, regulars," Alleyne said. "If Knolles has them all out searching like those, he'll be riding back and forth between the parties. You think he'd smell a rat, Father?"

  "Without a doubt," Nigel said. "But this isn't the only path he'd have to secure. It could be a diversion—and Tony would think of that. He has a tricky mind, and he likes to make very sure of all the possibilities."

  "Then they'll split up for sure, sir," Hordle said. "If they really want to catch us, they'll split six ways and cover every track we could take."

  "Captain Knolles will press the search hard, whatever his men think," Nigel said.

  He looked right, into the field that rose slowly to the roadway cutting and a plantation of beech trees three hundred yards ahead.

  j

  "I'm afraid Major Buttesthom and his men spent a lot of effort making their way clear for them," he said.

  "What shall we do, sir?" Hordle asked.

  "That rather depends on how many of them there are," Nigel said crisply.

  Pity it takes a fight to bring me out of my funk, he thought. But that's how God made me.

  "Let's go… but not too quickly. The Mi's just over that rise, and if they get on our trail there, it's a straight race. We cannot afford that. Better to meet them here."

  They pressed on through the gate, leading their mounts. Nigel was glad MacDonald had gone on ahead; no doubt the Scot was a brave man, but he preferred to depend on those whose qualities he knew thoroughly. They could hear the sound of hooves now, coming through the narrow way hacked behind them, shod hooves pounding on the broken pavement of the road. The three of them rode up the long gentle slope ahead; it hadn't been overgrown with bramble or blackthorn, but the grass was up to the horses' bellies, starred with a few of the season's last bloodred poppies and with nettle fortunately past the stinging stage. They rode slowly, birds and small game darting out of the grass before their horses' hooves—rabbits, a lithe foot-long stoat dragging a dead rabbit of its own, a pair of little muntjac deer that ran into the beech wood ahead and then barked frantically.

  "There they come!" Hordle called.

  "Halt," Nigel said crisply. "We want them to come on."

  He shaded his eyes with his hand and peered. "Ah, a demilance. They did split up to follow the possible trails—the other two are probably hacking their way through the bramble thickets even as we speak. And yes, it's Knolles himself."

  A lance was the term for two armored horsemen and six hobelars; a demilance was half that. He saw them file through the ruined field gate, and reached down to his saddlebow for his binoculars. Knolles's face was unmistakable—harsh with its great hook nose crossed by a scar—as was his red shield with its silver chevron and the roses on it. And he was looking back through his own field glasses, visor up.

  Nigel returned the glasses to their leather-lined steel case, set his sallet helmet on his head and fastened it, brought his own shield across from his back and dipped his lance to the distant figure; beside him Alleyne did the same. Knolles nodded, then waved his longbowmen on; the odds were four to three, but three of his had missile weapons. Nigel could hear the men's voices crying out, faint and shrill as the archers below dismounted and spread out in front of their commander, trotting forward through the waist-high grass with arrows on their strings. Hordle dismounted likewise, a savage grin on his face as he bent to tear off a clump of grass and then tossed it up to test the breeze.

  "It's uphill just a bit, and the wind's in their faces," he said. "The bloody fools've forgotten I can overshoot them by fifty yards."

  "Do your best, Sergeant," Nigel said.

  The first of the Guard archers stopped and bent his bow. The snap of the bowstring was faint at this distance; that would be a long shot under any circumstances. The arrow twinkled as it spun uphill, and then they could hear the faint hissing of its passage just before it thumped into the earth and disappeared in the long grass ten feet from Hordle.

  "That's Jack Graham," he said absently. "Good man to have a beer and a bit of a yarn with. Arms like a gorilla, he has, for all he's under six feet—good shot, Jack, and it's the last you'll make until next spring."

  He drew the great yellow bow and shot. "Over!" he swore.

  Downrange the stocky broad-shouldered man in his green-enameled chain-mail shirt and green uniform threw himself down with a yell as the long shaft hissed malignantly over his head. He shot back, two shafts in quick succession; the last one nearly reached Hordle's feet.

  "All rightie then, I gave you an extra two," Hordle muttered, and shot again.

  This time the arrow went home, through the other man's right shoulder. He fell, then sprang up, dancing with rage and shaking his left fist before crumpling again; the curses came faint and far against the wind.

  "Well, that's what you get for bloody shooting at me!" Hordle shouted, laughing, and reached for another shaft. The remaining pair of archers would be in range in
a moment, and the odds were now even.

  "Wait," Nigel Loring said. Hordle looked over his shoulder. "Put your handkerchief on this."

  He sloped his lance, dropping the long diamond-shaped head by the tall archer's shoulder, and held it there while Hordle stuck the scrap of off-white linen on the sharp point. Then he raised it again and waved it back and forth to catch the other officer's eye; he could hear Knolles's voice call the archers back immediately, and the Guard commander trotted forward to meet him as he sent his horse out into the middle of the field. They halted at lance-length apart, their visors raised; the wind murmured through the long grass and the woods behind, the thick brush ahead to the west. The warhorses mouthed their bits, tossed heads and stamped forefeet in challenge as they sensed their riders' tension and throttled anger. Nobody could hear what the men said through that susurrus of white noise.

  "You're under arrest, Colonel Loring," Anthony Knolles said. "And you've added firing on the forces of the Crown to the tally of charges!"

  Nigel felt himself smile; it was even genuine, which hadn't happened often since his wife died. He'd always liked Knolles, who was an entirely honest man—and who had a mind as savagely straightforward as an ax blade. Nothing could turn him from his duty but death—and even then one would be well advised to cut his head off to make sure—but he didn't handle conflicting duties well.

  "Not under arrest quite yet, Tony," he said. "And you haven't lost any men yet, either—good men the country needs. I've a proposition for you, old boy."

  "You'll return with me, and name your accomplices," Knolles said. "Besides those two, that is."

  "I'm most assuredly not going to give you any names," Nigel said serenely. "Here's what I will do. We'll run a course here and now. You beat me, and I'll surrender myself; you let my companions go—they're planning on leaving the country in any event. If I beat you, you let us all go and I promise on my word as an officer and a gentleman—and a Loring—that I'll leave England as well—'abjure the realm,' to use the terminology His Majesty prefers. We won't go to Ulster or the mainland colonies or Gibraltar, either, of course—nowhere in Europe, in fact. The king will have heard the last of the Lorings."