Standing on the cart, Alinor shrugged her shoulders, her arms spread wide, palms upturned. ‘What can I do?’ she replied. ‘I cannot move the cart by myself...’
‘Then we’ll have to help you.’ The soldier strutted boldly towards her. ‘First, we need to lighten the load.’
‘The sacks are quite heavy to carry,’ Alinor explained, ‘but two of you would manage...’ Her mind tacked back to earlier in the day, her breath fanning out like a veil in the pre-dawn air, when Ralph and his younger brothers had loaded the cart. It had taken two of them to lift each sack...
‘I have no intention of carrying your measly sacks anywhere,’ the soldier replied, his voice muffled by the helmet as he squeezed past the oxen to the back of the cart. Drawing his short sword, he slashed violently at the first sack, cutting the coarse hessian from top to bottom. Grain poured out, spilling over the side of the bridge, down, down into the rushing water. A whole field’s worth of harvest.
‘What are you doing?’ Alinor squawked at him in disbelief. Anger rose in her gullet, mirroring her fear. Panic rattled through her veins, but she had to overcome it, to fight it, for how could she let this thug, this ruffian, behave in such a way? How could she allow the nuns’ hard work to disappear beneath a river’s churning current? ‘How dare you!’ As the sack emptied, the soldier tossed the flapping remnants of the sack over the stone parapet and moved on to the next sack. At this rate, the nuns would lose everything!
‘Come on, men!’ The soldier ignored her furious words, curving one heavy arm upwards to summon his companions, as he moved along methodically. ‘Come and help me!’
‘No! No! Stop! You cannot do this! You have no right!’ Alinor yelled at the soldier, jumping down from the cart. Grabbing at the soldier’s arm, she pulled down hard, preventing him from slashing into the next sack. Pausing, he twisted around, holding the flashing blade up to her face, foetid breath wafting over her from the crossed slit in his helmet.
‘Take care, Sister,’ he warned. ‘I’m not in the habit of killing innocent nuns, but I’m sure I can make an exception on this occasion if you continue to goad me.’
The knife-point quivered beneath her nose. Silver in the sunlight, glinting, dangerous. How easy it would be to run away now, to acknowledge the fear that dragged at her belly, the fear that sapped the ligaments in her knees. She could simply turn tail now and hear the soldiers’ taunting laughter pursue her as she stumbled away. But it wasn’t in her nature to give up, to give in to people like this. They were bullies, pure and simple, and she wasn’t about to let them get away with this.
‘You don’t scare me,’ Alinor scoffed back at him. ‘I’m sure your Prince would have something to say if he knew what you’re doing!’ Her fingers scrabbled for her scabbard, fumbling for her dagger within the leather holder.
Within the shadowed confines of his helmet, the man scowled. ‘The only thing the Prince is thinking about is beating the rebel Simon de Montfort and he doesn’t care how he goes about it,’ the soldier hissed. ‘He wouldn’t give a fig for the likes of you. So step back, Sister, and let me do my work.’
He turned away again, about to cut into the next sack.
Rage boiled through Alinor’s veins, hot, surging; drawing her knife, she slashed down on to the soldier’s bare hand, cutting into his palm. He cried out in pain, blood spurting from his callused flesh; her attack was so unexpected that he dropped his short sword in surprise, blade clattering to the stone cobbles below. In a trice, she had kicked it away, sending the weapon spinning into the gloom beneath the cart. In the same moment, she saw her opportunity: the jewelled helm of the soldier’s long sword gleaming out from his scabbard. Her nerves jittered—was she really about to do this? There was no time to think about it. With both hands on the sword helm, she wrenched upwards, withdrawing the shining metal blade easily, and stepped back so the tip waggled dangerously towards his throat. She had helped her father on with his chainmail enough times to know where the weak spots were, where a blade could pierce the skin.
‘Step away from the cart!’ Alinor fought to contain the wobble in her voice. Fear washed her mind blank. How was this going to go? She had stopped him from ruining the sacks, but now what? Glancing behind quickly, she checked that no other soldier was creeping up behind her. But the rest of the group remained gathered beyond the bridge, pointing and laughing at their unfortunate comrade. They obviously didn’t think he needed any help, fully believing he would best her in the end; it was purely a matter of time. Come on, Alinor, think, she told herself firmly. Use your wits! Her slim fingers wound around the cross that hung across her bosom.
Cradling his bleeding hand, the soldier’s eyes blazed with annoyance through the slit in his helmet. ‘Give up now, Sister, and give me my sword back; there’s another dozen soldiers back there for you to fight before this is over. Your prayers are meaningless—your God cannot help you now.’
And there she had it: the dart of an idea. Let them think that she called on darker beings to help her now. Her pearl-studded cross hung down on a rope of thin wooden beads; she held it out and aloft, narrowing her eyes in what she hoped was a suitably threatening expression. ‘I agree...’ she lowered her voice to a sibilant hiss ‘...but I summon the Devil to help me now.’ She began to murmur in Latin, first softly, then louder and louder; unless he was a proficient Latin scholar, the soldier would have no idea that her words were complete nonsense. It was fortunate for her that at the same moment, a large black cloud moved slowly across the sun, dimming the landscape, sending a dusty gust of wind to scurry crisp leaves along the river bank, bouncing wildly. The soldiers fell silent; they watched Alinor, open-mouthed, faces greying as they realised what she was doing. As she spoke, she jabbed the sword in the man’s direction and slowly, slowly he backed away, around the other side of the cart, before staggering back to the other soldiers.
‘She’s put a curse on me!’ Alinor heard the soldier shout, pointing back to her. Her wrists ached from holding up the heavy sword, but she refused to let it drop. A curious bubble of laughter, or was it hysteria, welled up within her; she clamped down on it, hard. These men couldn’t see her laugh. Let them continue to think I’m giving them the evil eye, she thought. I’m safe here on this bridge as long as they believe that and so is the grain. But she lifted her eyes briefly skywards and prayed for Ralph’s swift return.
Suddenly, she felt very, very alone.
* * *
‘Where in the Devil’s name are we?’ Edward, son of Henry III of England, thrashed petulantly at the arching brambles with his sword, eventually pushing his horse into a small, shadowed clearing in the beech forest. He pulled his helmet off with an angry movement; sparse strands of pale blond poked out from around the edges of his chainmail hood. ‘And where are my outriders? I thought they were scarcely half a mile ahead? They’re supposed to come back and lead us through!’ He scowled, thin mouth rolling down at the corners like a spoiled three-year-old.
Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens, shrugged his massive shoulders as he reined in his glossy destrier to stop beside Edward’s horse. The three golden lions embroidered across his surcoat gleamed in the sunlight as he drew off his leather gloves and tucked them beneath his saddle front, lifting off his own helmet and pushing back his chainmail hood to reveal a shock of vigorous dark-blond hair. He shook his head roughly, relishing the kiss of balmy air against his hot scalp.
‘Well?’ Edward regarded him irritably, swatting at a fly buzzing lazily around his face.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Guilhem replied, rolling his shoulder forward, trying to relieve the itch beneath his chainmail. ‘Although as we’ve been riding half the night, I suspect they might have taken the opportunity to grab a short rest.’
‘We haven’t got time for a rest!’ Edward spluttered, yanking on the reins as his horse skittered nervously beneath him. ‘There are rumours that de Montfort might have crossed the River Severn; if that is the case,