"There is no need to attempt to deceive me, Maurice," said Andre, smiling. "I am on your side."
"Don't you jest with me, de la Croix!" said De Bracy, grabbing her by the cloth of her doublet and slamming her into the wall. He felt the swaddling cloth beneath. "What's this?"
He ripped open her doublet with a quick motion, revealing the cloth. "You're wounded! No, you're . . ." He saw the bulges beneath the cloth and his eyes grew wide. In that moment, Andre stuck her dagger into his stomach up to its hilt. As De Bracy jerked, she leaned into him, placing both hands on the dagger. She twisted the blade and used her weight to drive into him, jerking the dagger up several times in a ripping motion.
De Bracy sagged to the floor and she pulled the dagger
out of him, wiping its blade on his clothing. Clutching his stomach, he stared up at her in disbelief, making choking noises.
She glanced at him only briefly, to make certain that the wound was fatal, then she left him to die in his own dungeons.
* * * *
The word spread through the outlaws' ranks like wildfire. Richard had returned. No one knew who had been the original bearer of the news, but Lucas was convinced that Irving had infiltrated runners into the attacking force.
The news was passed rapidly. Richard, it seemed, had returned to England to take back his throne and to restore justice to the land. No one was exactly sure what "justice" was, but it was generally supposed that the Saxons were going to get a fair shake at last. Evidently, the king had met up with one of the outlaw bands and was even now on his way with a party of knights to join in the attack on Torquilstone. It was, of course, the sensible thing for him to do. Even the outlaws understood that De Bracy and Bois-Guilbert were allied with John and, as such, posed a threat to Richard. The news that was greeted with the greatest jubilation was that the king had decreed a blanket pardon for all the outlaws who would help him in his cause. Irving had done precisely as Hunter had surmised.
"You can bet that he won't make an appearance until he's certain that everyone has heard the news," said Bobby, sourly. "Well, that might make our job a little more difficult, but it still won't make it impossible. Before the day is out, we'll know which way this thing is going to go."
So far, it was going pretty much of its own accord. It was next to impossible to control such a large and undisciplined band of men. Outlaws from all over the countryside had arrived to take part in the revolt and they were out for blood. Finn, trying to do the best he could under the circumstances, was trying to direct the assault upon the barbican. It wasn't the ideal way to take a castle, but they were forced to follow the momentum of the attack and control its flow to whatever degree they could. Besides, the outcome of the battle was of no consequence to them. In that respect, there was a familiarity about the situation. It was like a standard temporal action. The soldiers from the future were fighting a war within a war. Irving was their objective. So long as they were able to take him out, what happened to Torquiistone didn't really matter.
The air above the castle was a hailstorm of arrows. Most of the cloth-yard shafts failed to find a mark, but given such a profusion of arrows, the archers took their inevitable toll. Anyone who risked showing themselves upon the battlements stood to become a pincushion in short order. Each lattice and aperture became a target for the bowmen and the Norman men at arms returned the fire with their crossbows at their peril. Finn's men were moving forward under the protection of mantelets and pavisses, which provided at least some protection from the arbalests being used to defend the barbican. Once that was taken, then the other outlaws could move forward for a mass assault upon the outer walls and postern with rams and scaling ladders. It would be a bloody conflict with heavy losses.
Above the din of battle, a trumpet call was heard and, from across the meadow, a formation of knights approached at full gallop. In their vanguard, a knight wearing the three lions of Richard Plantagenet rode beside his banner.
"He must have completely lost his mind," said Bobby. He removed one of his warhead arrows from his quiver and fitted it to the bow. "This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. The moment he gets in range, I'm going to let him have it."
"I don't know if that's wise," said Lucas. "Maybe we should wait until he gets into the thick of it. If he falls in the middle of the battle, it might not be as noticeable."
"I really don't give a damn," said Bobby.
"Don't be hasty," Lucas said. "There are outlaws all around us who are very pleased to see this man. Remember, he just pardoned all of them. They're not going to take it too kindly if they see you drawing a bead on him. The idea is for us to get the job done and get back alive."
"Maybe. But it might be best just to take our chances. Finn's right. Our job is to take him out and then let the refs worry about fixing things up."
"All right. So we'll take him out. But let's not rush it and blow the deal. Has it occurred to you that he knows we're here? Do you think he'd be so stupid as to make such an obvious target of himself?"
"What are you getting at?"
"What I'm getting at is that there's no guarantee that the guy wearing Richard's armor is really Irving. He might be one of the others and the man in Richard's armor just a decoy to enable him to get past us."
"The man's got a point," said Hunter. He had come up right behind them and now he beckoned them back under the cover of the trees. They went a short distance away from the drawn lines of the outlaws and found that Hunter had brought his chronoplate with him, along with some other equipment. "Okay, I'm going to make it fast, so listen up. I just hope to hell you guys have been cleared on these weapons at some time, because I haven't got the time or the inclination to start giving lessons right now. I brought back a couple of Swedish "K" grease guns. Lucas, you hang on to my Colt, I've brought back another. Bobby, here's a .45 for you, too. If things get really hairy, I brought back a few pyrogel grenades, Mark Fours. Here's a bunch of magazines—"
"Are you kidding?" Bobby said. "This stuff's prehistoric!"
"Not in the 12th century it ain't, pilgrim. Listen, I had a hell of a time just getting those grenades. What do you want, a GE/Krupp four-barrel pulser? I almost got myself fried getting my hands on these. TC ordnance isn't exactly just lying around for the taking, you know. I'm not putting my ass on the line for anybody. If you can't do the job with this stuff, you just can't do the job, so hang it up."
"Okay, okay," said Bobby. "So what's the plan?"
"The plan is to move fast as hell," said Hunter. "Lucas is right. You don't know which of those jokers is Irving, so Bobby, old friend, you just take one of these pretty little Swedes and you open up on all of 'em."
"If Irving's wearing nysteel, a submachine gun isn't going to do the trick. It might beat his armor all to hell, but it's going to be pretty iffy."
"Right. But you can bet your ass it's going to knock him down," said Hunter. "It'll kill anybody who isn't wearing nysteel. The guy who gets back up is your man. Then you can use one of your fancy arrows on him. Right?"
"Great," said Bobby. "Give me that thing." He took the grease gun and quickly checked it.
"You all still got the PRU's I gave you?" Hunter said. "Where's Delaney?"