Armada

Cross slowed his pace, looking left and right to the extremities of the motte. He estimated it was at least two hundred paces around and more than thirty feet high. He stretched out his arms, indicating to the soldiers to fan out and surround the site, then looked to the summit. The crumbling walls gave it an irregular shape and he felt the dread of indecision in his stomach. If he attacked the ruins, chaos was bound to ensue and some of the traitors might escape. On the other hand, if he waited for them to descend they might not all leave together, or in the same direction. Worse still, if they became aware they were surrounded, they might cause a diversion in one area and escape in another.

Cross drew his sword and allowed the familiar weight to calm him. He reached the base and heard the men shuffle past him as they went to encircle the motte. He looked up the steep slope. The perimeter of the motte at the summit was half that at the base. If his men gained that perimeter then the net would be twice as effective. He nodded to himself and whispered to Tanner. They would advance up the hill. The agent ran off to tell the rest of the men, whispering to each in turn. Cross watched him disappear into the darkness. He tightened his grip on his sword and took to the slope of the motte.

Cross stopped short. There was a clash of steel, and another. It was a faint sound, muffled by distance and the ruins, but it sounded as if men were fighting on the summit. He increased his pace. Had one of the soldiers already reached the summit? Impossible. The fight had to be amongst the men he had come to arrest. But how could that be? Cross was suddenly filled with apprehension. The prize he so desperately wanted was just yards away. He pushed on up the slope, praying that the men he sought would come to no harm.

Robert slashed his blade down, knocking away the point of Clarsdale’s sword. He was breathing heavily and his left hand was dripping with blood from a gash in his forearm, but he was possessed with the strength of his battle lust. He stepped forward again, eager to end the fight.

Clarsdale gave ground, tiring fast. His sword arm was numb and he felt the muscles in his shoulder jar as he parried another strike from a keen opponent half his age.

Robert sensed Clarsdale’s desperation, saw it in his eyes, and pressed home his attack, sweeping his blade through a series of sequenced strikes that turned his weapon into a flurry of steel. Clarsdale blocked each attack but his sword was slowly forced outward, twisting the wrist of his sword hand, weakening his grip and Robert suddenly struck the flat of Clarsdale’s blade with all the momentum of his attack, knocking the sword from his hand. He went in for the kill but his strike was stopped short by another blade. He spun around, his eyes going to his new foe.

‘Lower you sword,’ Nathaniel commanded.

Robert did not move.

‘You cannot kill him,’ Nathaniel warned, keeping his sword charged. His son had chosen to oppose them, he was the enemy and Nathaniel moved around to place himself between Robert and Clarsdale.

‘He’s a traitor,’ Robert said, staring at the darkened features of the man standing before him. ‘So are you, Father, and in running off to seek exile in the midst of this country’s enemies you have revealed yourself to be worse – a coward.’

Nathaniel’s temper slipped beyond the bounds of his control and he lunged forward at the insult. Robert leapt back but he swiftly counter attacked, sweeping his blade in low, trying to draw around to his father’s flank. Nathaniel countered but he gave ground, his balance faltering as Robert extended his assault, thrusting deeply into Nathaniel’s defence, forcing him to react with greater speed.

Robert feigned left and then switched his attack in the last instant. Nathaniel parried and Robert repeated the sequence, feigning left once more. This time Nathaniel was quicker to react, anticipating the ruse and he struck back with a sharp riposte, slicing through the material of Robert’s jerkin. Robert stayed on the offensive, shifting his weight to attack to the left. Nathaniel expected another feint but this time Robert followed through, catching him off guard, his reactions too slow, and Nathaniel instinctively twisted his upper body to avoid the strike, splitting his defence wide open in an instant. Robert immediately reversed his blade and the tip of his sword swept up to his father’s throat.

‘Robert, no!’ a voice cried out.

Robert stayed the blow, holding the tip an inch from Nathaniel’s throat. Father Blackthorne stepped out of the darkness.

‘He’s your father, Robert. You cannot kill him. It is a mortal sin.’

‘He is not my father,’ Robert breathed. ‘He’s a traitor.’

‘And you are not my son,’ Nathaniel spat, his eyes blazing with hatred.

Robert nodded. ‘Then I am absolved.’

‘You men on the summit!’ a voice roared from out of the darkness. ‘You are surrounded. In the name of the Queen, I command you to drop your weapons and step forward.’