Chapter 13

Cresswell Hills, Barony of Langmere, Duchy of Kingsheart

Tom Fletcher lay on his stomach, peering through the tall grass at the narrow, winding pathway that sloped and curved between the steep grassy hillsides. The Cresswell Hills were notorious for their rugged terrain, with sharp, rocky cliffs interspaced among the grassy slopes, creating dips and valleys all along the chain of hills, making them the perfect place to hide.

A man named Ivor, who’d joined their group a few days before, whispered, “How can you be so certain they’ll come through here? There must be other ways for them to go.”

Nodding toward a man a few meters down, Tom said, “Godric there told us this was the only pass through these hills that wouldn’t add miles to their journey. We know where they’re heading, and we left a big enough trail of gossip that a blind man should be able to follow us in this direction. They think the ‘escapees’ are a half-day’s ride down this trail. They haven’t shown a lot of imagination so far, so I don’t expect we’ll see a lot now.”

“But this is dangerous, right? This isn’t like scattering one or two bailiffs and stealing wagons. I heard there was a fair number of them,” Ivor said, looking nervously at the other men scattered along the hillside with them.

“Yes, of course it’s dangerous, but these men have been hunting people who did nothing but travel to the closest market to their village to sell their wares. Now, they’re being hunted like animals for sport. There’s a justice beyond the king’s justice, and these men who are hunting our people deserve it. You don’t have to fight with us if you don’t want to. I don’t ask any man to fight against their will. I, however, am going to show these men what happens when you harass and kill people who are just trying to live free.”

“No, no. I’m not saying...” Ivor started to say, until Tom held up a hand, silencing him.

Cocking his head, Fletcher listened hard to the wind and the rustling grass until he heard it again, the faint but unmistakable sound of hoofbeats and voices of men not trying to be silent. Another moment passed before he saw them, a small force of two knights and around twenty bailiffs, all on horseback rounding the bend in the path below. The two knights rode at the head of the column in what looked like well-used armor.

Behind rode some twenty bailiffs, their gambesons and surcoats marked with the watchtower and hills of Langmere. The bailiffs were deadly, but not outside of his men’s ability to deal with. The knights, however, would be a bigger problem, especially if their trap failed.

Tom waited, watching the men ride closer, before raising his hand in a silent signal to his men waiting on the opposite hill. A few of the men on the far ridge raised their hands in return, a silent acknowledgment of the message.

“Get everyone ready. As soon as those knights hit the trap, we move in,” he said to the man next to him, one of the first to join their band. “They’re so confident in their own superiority that they don’t even have scouts out.”

As if almost on cue, the lead horse stepped into a pit concealed beneath a layer of leaves that covered this entire stretch of the pathway. The animal’s dappled front legs plunged through the camouflaging leaves and branches, sending its front half into a hole. It wasn’t deep enough for the whole animal to disappear into, but it had just enough depth that its momentum sent the armored knight tumbling forward over the horse’s head into the pit.

The wounded animal’s front legs kicked and thrashed in confusion and pain, its hooves almost certainly further injuring the helpless knight trapped beneath it. From within the pit came the sounds of snapping branches and crushing leaves as the horse continued to struggle, interspersed with the cries of the trapped knight.

The second knight had better reactions, quickly reining in his nervous mount before it could stumble into the same trap.

“Now! Attack!” Tom yelled, rising swiftly to his feet.

At his command, fifty peasants sprang from their hiding places, raining a deadly barrage of arrows and stones upon the unsuspecting men below. The volley descended with deadly accuracy, piercing the lightly armored bailiffs or smashing against their unhelmeted heads with sickening cracks. Cries of panic and pain rose up from the men as they scrambled for cover, many toppling clumsily from their terrified mounts that whinnied and bucked wildly to escape the attack.

Attempting to form a protective line, the surviving bailiffs raised their shields against the unrelenting incoming fire. The remaining knight bellowed commands, urgently trying to rally his men, one of whom turned his horse to flee before being cut down a few steps away from the rest.

Tom’s men poured fire down the rocky slopes, loosing arrow after arrow from behind the sparse cover of boulders and stubborn bushes clinging to the hillside. Each volley drove deeper into their confused ranks.

The remaining bailiffs were falling quickly, but the knight still posed a serious threat. Their simple weapons were useless against his heavy plate armor, which rebuffed every shot sent his way.

“Concentrate your fire on the men nearest the knight! Separate him from the others!” Tom shouted at the men closest to him.

At his command, a concentrated rain of arrows slammed into the panicking horses and men near the knight. The massive warhorses, trained for battle yet terrified by the onslaught, reared up and kicked out with iron-shod hooves, crushing one unfortunate man. Amidst the chaos, a single lucky arrow found its mark in the knight’s mount, sending it toppling to the ground, spilling its mail-clad rider onto his back in a crash of steel.

“Now, while he’s down. Swarm them, now!” Tom shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of battle, waving his sword in a signal for the men on the opposite hill.

At his command, the peasants poured down the hillside, spilling into the narrow pathway. Tom let the bulk of his men finish off the few remaining bailiffs while he held back his best men—those who had seen real combat when pressed into their lords’ armies. He had ordered them to stay near him for precisely this moment.

“With me!” he commanded.

Tom and the five men charged the knight, who was struggling to get off his back, his foot stuck under the heavy, lifeless body of his warhorse. Tom, who led the charge, arrived first and lunged with his sword, but it was deflected by the knight’s sword as he slashed wildly while he continued to try to pull his leg free.

One of Tom’s men stepped too close, missing his thrust, and paid dearly for his mistake as the knight’s sword slashed across the poor boy’s stomach, spilling his insides. The boy fell back with a gurgling scream, his hands clutching desperately at the bloody mess of his abdomen. Seizing the opportunity afforded by the boy’s sacrifice, a large farmer named Wilum swung with all his might at the distracted knight’s helm, his massive club smashing into the man’s head, the thick wood splintering as it connected. Though strongly delivered, the crushing blow only slightly dented the finely worked steel of the helm, but the force of the impact was enough to momentarily rattle the man within. The knight’s swings slowed as he struggled to regain his senses.

Tom seized the opportunity, lunging forward with his sword aimed straight at the gap between the knight’s helm and breastplate. The blade sliced cleanly into the exposed flesh of the man’s neck, releasing a crimson torrent as the knight’s body went limp and collapsed to the blood-soaked ground.

Pulling his weapon free, Tom could see the bailiffs’ bodies scattered around the path. Sadly, among the fallen were some of his own men. They had all known the dangers that came with this uprising, but it still pained him deeply to see men who’d entrusted their lives to him fall.

A frantic noise from the pit drew Tom’s attention. The knight’s horse was still desperately struggling to break free, its coat now lathered with sweat from the exertion, its dark eyes wide with panic. Tom could also hear the injured knight groaning faintly from the bottom of the pit beneath the distressed animal.

Tom signaled to his men to finish the job. They quickly gathered heavy stones and dropped them onto the helpless knight, crushing him beneath their weight until all noise from the man ceased. While they were dealing with that grim task, Tom swiftly dispatched the suffering horse, sliding his sword across its throat in one clean motion to grant it a merciful end. Better to put it out of its misery than to let it continue to suffer.

The battle over, Tom surveyed his losses. Three of his men lay dead and another handful had various injuries, although none life-threatening. Two would be laid up for a time but should recover. In return, the king and his baron had lost twenty-two of their own men, including two battle-hardened, experienced knights. A costly victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Search the bodies,” Tom ordered. “Take anything of value and give it to the families of the fallen. We’ll make sure they’re well compensated for their loss. Collect all the armor and weapons! We’ll need them for the coming fight. And gather up any living horses as well. Each dead man’s family gets a horse. We’ll take the rest with us.”

The men worked quickly, stripping the bodies of their armor and weapons, and leading the surviving horses away. The men were in high spirits, laughing and slapping each other on the back as they worked, flushed with pride. He didn’t fault them for their joy. If someone had told him a year ago that a group of poorly armed peasants could do this, he would have scoffed at them. They had a right to their celebration, but he couldn’t share in it.

This would provoke a swift and brutal response from the king, probably against other peasants who had taken no part in the ambush. This was a necessary step to break the cycle of suffering, but he couldn’t feel joy knowing the price they were bound to pay for it.