Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars 2)

The injured Lion had salvaged bolts from the ballista and these he handed to his fellows. “Brace with these,” he shouted, his voice heavily slurred. “It’s our only chance to stop the charge. Eagle!” He nodded toward her, his sliced cheek still seeping blood. “Shoot into the faces of the horses. That might hurt their charge.”

Men stumbled forward through the dawning light, forming a line where once the pickets had stood. New raiders, emboldened by the defensive posture of the king’s troops, set to work on the now undefended engines.

“The king!” voices shouted far behind her. “The king rides forth!”

She hunched down behind the line of Lions and men-at-arms, a few of whom held the long ballista bolts inclined forward like spears. While the others braced themselves, spear butts dug into the ground, she sheathed her sword and readied her bow. Her mind had gone still and quiet; empty. She nocked, drew, and shot, but lost sight of the arrow in the gloom. The pounding of hooves drowned her; she could not even hear the Lions next to her speaking. Beyond, the fortress lay still. No footmen or archers had followed the lord’s charge out the gates. She nocked another arrow, drew—

The horsemen were upon them. She had only an instant to register their tabards, sewn with the device of a swan. The lead horseman, made bright by his shining mail and gleaming helm and the white coat of his horse, cleared them with a great leap. His fellows broke through, some of the horses jumping, some simply shattering the line with their weight. Only one horse faltered, screaming in pain as a spear caught it in the chest, and went down. A Lion dragged the rider from his horse.

She followed the charging horsemen with her nocked arrow but could not release it for fear of hitting the king’s people. By now, all was chaos in the camp. The lord leading the charge had little interest in the infantry who hurried forward. His milites behind him, he headed for the tent that flew the king’s banner: a huge red silk pennant marked with an eagle, a dragon, and a lion stitched in gold. His charge carried him through camp, scattering the disorganized troops who lay in his path.

King Henry had not waited for his lords. With a quilted jacket and steel cap he had mounted, taken up St. Perpetua’s holy lance, and now, with no more than a dozen mounted riders at his back, he raced toward the fray. The king broke from a cluster of tents into the small parade that separated the high nobility from the rest of the camp. Henry drove his horse into a charge, lance lowered, and galloped forward in a headlong fury. Others, shouting, tried to divert his charge, but the king’s horse was evidently possessed by the same fury that, smoldering for so long, had finally burst into full flame. These riders would feel the wrath that Sabella, as his kinswoman, had been spared.

From the opposite end of the parade, the lord and his retinue approached, also at full gallop. As they passed the last tent of the lower camp, the right leg of the lord’s mount caught the guy rope, toppling the tent and throwing lord and horse to the ground with terrific force.

“Up, you!” cried Thiadbold, jerking Liath to her feet. A few men lay moaning or quiet on the ground around her. The rider, pulled from his horse, was dead.

She ran up the hill with the others.

Henry barely had time to pull up his charge as the lord’s companions scattered in confusion. The king laid his lance against the man’s chest. The lord’s face was hidden by mail that draped down from the nasal of his gold-trimmed helmet.

“Yield!” cried the king in a voice that carried across the camp and caused a sudden stilling hand to press down on the battle. The man did not stir but, one by one, his companions were slain, disarmed, or forced to surrender.

“Liath! To me!” Liath ran over to Hathui and stood panting beside her. “Eagles don’t fight,” added Hathui in an undertone. “They witness. But you did well, comrade.”

o;Fall back!” cried Thiadbold, his words underscored by a heavy drumming throb, the pound of hooves and the ominous call of a low-pitched horn. “To the camp! To the king!”

She saw at once what the ruse had been. The raid on the siege engines had diverted their attention from the picket of stakes that protected the flanks of the camp. The horsemen from the fortress pressed forward at full charge and with spears lowered. With the stakes now uprooted or cut down, they had a clear sweep into camp.

“We have too few to repel the charge!” cried Thiadbold. “Eagle! Fall back!”

She obeyed, and they made room for her behind them, for of all the men hacking around at the remains of the raiding force, falling back to set a position against the charge of heavy horse, she was the only one without some kind of armor.

The injured Lion had salvaged bolts from the ballista and these he handed to his fellows. “Brace with these,” he shouted, his voice heavily slurred. “It’s our only chance to stop the charge. Eagle!” He nodded toward her, his sliced cheek still seeping blood. “Shoot into the faces of the horses. That might hurt their charge.”

Men stumbled forward through the dawning light, forming a line where once the pickets had stood. New raiders, emboldened by the defensive posture of the king’s troops, set to work on the now undefended engines.

“The king!” voices shouted far behind her. “The king rides forth!”

She hunched down behind the line of Lions and men-at-arms, a few of whom held the long ballista bolts inclined forward like spears. While the others braced themselves, spear butts dug into the ground, she sheathed her sword and readied her bow. Her mind had gone still and quiet; empty. She nocked, drew, and shot, but lost sight of the arrow in the gloom. The pounding of hooves drowned her; she could not even hear the Lions next to her speaking. Beyond, the fortress lay still. No footmen or archers had followed the lord’s charge out the gates. She nocked another arrow, drew—

The horsemen were upon them. She had only an instant to register their tabards, sewn with the device of a swan. The lead horseman, made bright by his shining mail and gleaming helm and the white coat of his horse, cleared them with a great leap. His fellows broke through, some of the horses jumping, some simply shattering the line with their weight. Only one horse faltered, screaming in pain as a spear caught it in the chest, and went down. A Lion dragged the rider from his horse.

She followed the charging horsemen with her nocked arrow but could not release it for fear of hitting the king’s people. By now, all was chaos in the camp. The lord leading the charge had little interest in the infantry who hurried forward. His milites behind him, he headed for the tent that flew the king’s banner: a huge red silk pennant marked with an eagle, a dragon, and a lion stitched in gold. His charge carried him through camp, scattering the disorganized troops who lay in his path.

King Henry had not waited for his lords. With a quilted jacket and steel cap he had mounted, taken up St. Perpetua’s holy lance, and now, with no more than a dozen mounted riders at his back, he raced toward the fray. The king broke from a cluster of tents into the small parade that separated the high nobility from the rest of the camp. Henry drove his horse into a charge, lance lowered, and galloped forward in a headlong fury. Others, shouting, tried to divert his charge, but the king’s horse was evidently possessed by the same fury that, smoldering for so long, had finally burst into full flame. These riders would feel the wrath that Sabella, as his kinswoman, had been spared.

From the opposite end of the parade, the lord and his retinue approached, also at full gallop. As they passed the last tent of the lower camp, the right leg of the lord’s mount caught the guy rope, toppling the tent and throwing lord and horse to the ground with terrific force.

“Up, you!” cried Thiadbold, jerking Liath to her feet. A few men lay moaning or quiet on the ground around her. The rider, pulled from his horse, was dead.

She ran up the hill with the others.

Henry barely had time to pull up his charge as the lord’s companions scattered in confusion. The king laid his lance against the man’s chest. The lord’s face was hidden by mail that draped down from the nasal of his gold-trimmed helmet.

“Yield!” cried the king in a voice that carried across the camp and caused a sudden stilling hand to press down on the battle. The man did not stir but, one by one, his companions were slain, disarmed, or forced to surrender.

“Liath! To me!” Liath ran over to Hathui and stood panting beside her. “Eagles don’t fight,” added Hathui in an undertone. “They witness. But you did well, comrade.”