Read Online The Last Crusaders: The Great Siege by William Napier - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William Napier
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Nicholas saw before the lash descended was the boy still hanging from the gallows bar, shamefully still not cut down. Tongue garishly bulging from darkening lips. Eyes staring out of hell.
What he and Hodge did not see was two strangers riding into the square on big horses. Huge horses, like those thunderous destriers ridden by knights of old. Plough horses, presumably. Why did they ride such leviathans?
People instinctively drew back from them. They had an air about them, travel-stained and powerfully built, a distant look in the eye, and scabbards showing beneath the hem of their muddy cloaks. They pulled up their animals behind the expectant crowds. People glanced back at them uneasily.
One kept his hood up against the thin rain, shadowing his grim, darkly bearded face. The other dropped his back to reveal dirty blond hair and handsome, sunburnt, somewhat battered looks. Perhaps thirty years of age. The crowd had even more reason to step away and give them space when the fairhead drew his sword, faster than the eye could follow, and seemed about to run someone through. People swayed back like wheat before the wind. The swordsman reached forward and with the most delicate, fine-judged flick of his swordpoint, removed a horse-leech that was fattening on his horse’s neck.
He sheathed his sword.
At the spectacle about to unfold at the cart’s end in the middle of the square, he seemed merely amused. He leaned his elbows easily on the high pommel of his saddle, eyes narrowed, a flicker of a smile on his lips as he lazily chewed a stem of dried grass.
‘Well a-day,’ he murmured. ‘Looks like these beggars hadn’t the trick of begging for mercy.’
The lash flew high in the grey air, straightened, and bit down. It cut into the servant boy first. He arched his back and bit down on the stick with all his might, head thrown back, throat strained, eyes squeezed shut.
The second constable flicked his lash out and let fly against the bold one without a jawstick. To give the boy fair due, he reeled under the savagery of the lash but made no sound.
Then a voice roared out from the back of the crowd.
‘Hold there!’
It was a voice of such deep strength that the constables stopped still and stared. Crake stepped forward and tutted, glaring over the people’s heads and seeing the two dangerous-looking strangers for the first time.
The crowd parted before them and the two mighty riders came through, the hooves of their plough horses clopping on the wet cobbles like wooden dinner plates. They pulled up beside the cart where the half-naked boys were tied, blood already oozing from their cuts, and sat easily.
The fairheaded one said, ‘Tell me, you are the presiding Justice here?’
‘That I am,’ snapped Crake, ‘and these constables are appointed by the parish. You are?’
There was something horrible in the way the two strangers glanced at each other at this question, the fair one grinning, then turned back and gave no answer. Something indefinably threatening. Could they be the Queen’s men? Yet they wore no crest, no insignia, nothing but their dirty riding cloaks. And beneath them, Crake now discerned – he swallowed – jerkins of chainmail.
‘How many lashes are the lads to have?’ asked the fairhead.
‘Thirty,’ said Crake. ‘And that’s merciful. Now I ask again, who—?’
‘Thirty, on these skinny young backs?’ interrupted the stranger. ‘They won’t have skin enough left to make a lady’s purse.’
‘That is their misfortune. They should have considered their fate before they took to thievery.’
‘What have they stolen?’
Crake snorted. ‘All that they eat, they steal! What can they honestly earn on the road?’
‘What indeed? How came they on the road?’
Crake looked furious, white-faced and puritanical. ‘I know not.’
The rider smiled equably. ‘You lie.’
His hooded companion now tossed back the corner of his cloak, and there hanging from his belt was a very fine
What he and Hodge did not see was two strangers riding into the square on big horses. Huge horses, like those thunderous destriers ridden by knights of old. Plough horses, presumably. Why did they ride such leviathans?
People instinctively drew back from them. They had an air about them, travel-stained and powerfully built, a distant look in the eye, and scabbards showing beneath the hem of their muddy cloaks. They pulled up their animals behind the expectant crowds. People glanced back at them uneasily.
One kept his hood up against the thin rain, shadowing his grim, darkly bearded face. The other dropped his back to reveal dirty blond hair and handsome, sunburnt, somewhat battered looks. Perhaps thirty years of age. The crowd had even more reason to step away and give them space when the fairhead drew his sword, faster than the eye could follow, and seemed about to run someone through. People swayed back like wheat before the wind. The swordsman reached forward and with the most delicate, fine-judged flick of his swordpoint, removed a horse-leech that was fattening on his horse’s neck.
He sheathed his sword.
At the spectacle about to unfold at the cart’s end in the middle of the square, he seemed merely amused. He leaned his elbows easily on the high pommel of his saddle, eyes narrowed, a flicker of a smile on his lips as he lazily chewed a stem of dried grass.
‘Well a-day,’ he murmured. ‘Looks like these beggars hadn’t the trick of begging for mercy.’
The lash flew high in the grey air, straightened, and bit down. It cut into the servant boy first. He arched his back and bit down on the stick with all his might, head thrown back, throat strained, eyes squeezed shut.
The second constable flicked his lash out and let fly against the bold one without a jawstick. To give the boy fair due, he reeled under the savagery of the lash but made no sound.
Then a voice roared out from the back of the crowd.
‘Hold there!’
It was a voice of such deep strength that the constables stopped still and stared. Crake stepped forward and tutted, glaring over the people’s heads and seeing the two dangerous-looking strangers for the first time.
The crowd parted before them and the two mighty riders came through, the hooves of their plough horses clopping on the wet cobbles like wooden dinner plates. They pulled up beside the cart where the half-naked boys were tied, blood already oozing from their cuts, and sat easily.
The fairheaded one said, ‘Tell me, you are the presiding Justice here?’
‘That I am,’ snapped Crake, ‘and these constables are appointed by the parish. You are?’
There was something horrible in the way the two strangers glanced at each other at this question, the fair one grinning, then turned back and gave no answer. Something indefinably threatening. Could they be the Queen’s men? Yet they wore no crest, no insignia, nothing but their dirty riding cloaks. And beneath them, Crake now discerned – he swallowed – jerkins of chainmail.
‘How many lashes are the lads to have?’ asked the fairhead.
‘Thirty,’ said Crake. ‘And that’s merciful. Now I ask again, who—?’
‘Thirty, on these skinny young backs?’ interrupted the stranger. ‘They won’t have skin enough left to make a lady’s purse.’
‘That is their misfortune. They should have considered their fate before they took to thievery.’
‘What have they stolen?’
Crake snorted. ‘All that they eat, they steal! What can they honestly earn on the road?’
‘What indeed? How came they on the road?’
Crake looked furious, white-faced and puritanical. ‘I know not.’
The rider smiled equably. ‘You lie.’
His hooded companion now tossed back the corner of his cloak, and there hanging from his belt was a very fine
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