Dawnspell. Katharine KerrЧитать онлайн книгу.
noble lords willing to risk a move to gain land of their own, and plenty of bondsmen willing to go with them since they became free men once they left their bound-land. When Caradoc’s troop rode into Camynwaen, they found a decent town of a thousand roundhouses behind high stone walls, turreted with watchtowers.
About a mile away was the stone dun of Tieryn Maenoic, and there Caradoc found the kind of hire he’d been looking for. Although Maenoic received maintenance from the gwerbret to the south, there was a shortage of fighting men in his vast demesne, and he had a private war on his hands. Since the authority of his clan was fairly new, he was always plagued with rebellions. For years now the chief troublemaker had been a certain Lord Pagwyl.
‘And he’s gathered together a lot of bastards like himself,’ Maenoic said. ‘And they claim they’ll ask the gwerbret to give them a tieryn of their own and not submit to me. I can’t stand for it.’
He couldn’t, truly, because standing for it would not only take half his land away but also make him the laughing stock of every man in Eldidd. A stout hard-muscled man, with a thick streak of grey in his raven-dark hair, Maenoic was steaming with fury as he strode back and forth looking over the troop, who were sitting on their horses outside the gates to Maenoic’s dun. Caradoc and Maddyn followed a respectful distance behind while the lord judged the troop’s horses and gear with a shrewd eye.
‘Very well, captain. A silver piece per week per man, your maintenance, and of course I’ll replace any horses that you lose.’
‘Most generous, my lord,’ Caradoc said. ‘For peacetime.’
Maenoic turned to scowl at him.
‘Another silver piece per man for every battle we fight,’ Caradoc went on. ‘And that’s paid for every man who dies, too.’
‘Far too much.’
‘As it pleases Your Lordship. Me and my men can just ride on.’
And over to your enemies, perhaps – the thought hung unspoken between them for a long moment. Finally Maenoic swore under his breath.
‘Done, then. A second silver piece per man for every scrap.’
With an open and innocent smile, Caradoc bowed to him.
Maenoic’s new-built dun was large enough to have two sets of barracks and stables built into the walls – a blessing, because the mercenaries could be well separated from Maenoic’s contemptuous warband. At meals, though, they shared the same set of tables, and the warband made barely tolerable comments about men who fought for money and quite intolerable comments about the parentage and character of such who did so. Between them Caradoc and Maenoic broke up seven different fist-fights in two days before the army was at last ready to ride out.
After he had called in all his loyal allies, Maenoic had over two hundred and fifty men to lead west against his rebels. In the line of march, Caradoc’s troop came at the very end, behind even the supply wagons, and ate dust all day long. At night they made camp by themselves a little way off from the warbands of the noble-born. Caradoc, however, was summoned when the lords held a council of war. He came back to the troop with solid news and gathered them around him to hear it.
‘Tomorrow we’ll see the first scrap. Here’s how things stand, lads. We’re coming to a river, and there’s a bridge there. Maenoic claims the taxes on it, but Pagwyl’s holding out. The scouts say Pagwyl’s going to make a stand to prevent the tieryn from crossing, because once he crosses against Pagwyl’s will, it’s his bridge again in everybody’s eyes. We’ll be leading the charge – of course.’
Everyone nodded, acknowledging that they were, after all, the disposable mercenaries. Maddyn found himself troubled by a strange feeling, a coldness, a heaviness. It took him a long time to admit it, but then he realized that he was quite simply afraid. That night he dreamt of his last charge up in Cantrae and woke soaked with cold sweat. You coward, he told himself; you ugly little coward! The reproach burned in his very soul, but the truth was that he had almost died in that last charge, and now he knew what it felt like to be dying. The fear choked him as palpably as if he’d swallowed a clot of sheep’s wool. What was worst of all was knowing that here was one thing he could never share with Aethan.
All night, all the next morning, the fear festered so badly that by the time the army reached the bridge, Maddyn was hysterically happy that the battle was at hand and soon to be over. He was singing under his breath and whistling in turn when the army crested a low rise and saw, just as they’d expected, Lord Pagwyl and his allies drawn up by the riverbank to meet them. There was a surprise, however, in the men who waited for them: a bare hundred mounted swordsmen eked out by two big squares of common-born spearmen, placed so that they blocked any possible approach to the bridge itself.
‘Oh here,’ said Maddyn, forcing a laugh. ‘Pagwyl was a fool to rebel if that’s all the riders he could scrape together.’
‘Horseshit!’ Caradoc snapped. ‘His lordship knows what he’s doing. I’ve seen fighting like this before, spearmen guarding a fixed position. We’re in for a little gallop through the third hell, lad.’
As Maenoic’s army milled around in confusion, Caradoc led his men calmly up to the front of the line. The enemy had picked a perfect place to stand, a long green meadow in front of the bridge, bordered by the river on one side of their formation and on the other, the broken, crumbling earthwork of some long-gone farmer’s cattle corral. Three rows deep, the spearmen stood shield to shield, the spearheads glittering above the chalk-whitened oval shields. To one side of the shield-wall, the mounted men sat on restless horses, ready to charge in from the side and pin Maenoic’s men between them and the river.
‘Horseshit and a pile of it,’ Caradoc muttered. ‘We can’t wheel round the bastards without falling into the blasted river.’
Maddyn merely nodded, too choked for breath to answer. He was remembering the feel of metal, biting deep into his side. Under him, his horse tossed its head and stamped as if it too were remembering their last charge. When Caradoc trotted off to confer with Maenoic, Aethan pulled up beside Maddyn; he’d already settled his shield over his left arm and drawn a javelin. While he followed the example, Maddyn had to work so hard to keep his horse steady that he suddenly realized that the poor beast did remember that last charge. He had a battle-shy horse under him and no time to change him.
The spearmen began calling out jeers and taunting the enemy for scum on horseback, screaming into the sunlight and the wind that blew the taunts into jagged, incomprehensible pieces of words. Some of Maenoic’s men shouted back, but Caradoc’s troop merely sat on their horses and waited until at last their captain left the lord’s side and jogged back, easy in his saddle, a javelin in his hand.
‘All right, lads. We’re riding.’
There was a gust of laughter in the troop as they jogged forward to join him. Maenoic’s own men pulled in behind, but the rest of the army wheeled off, ready to charge the enemy riders positioned off to the side. With an odd jingling shuffle, like a load of metal wares jouncing in a cart, the army formed up. Caradoc turned in his saddle, saw Maddyn right next to him, and yelled at him over the noise.
‘Get back! I want to hear our bard sing tonight. Get back in the last rank!’
Maddyn had never wanted to follow an order more in his life, but he fought with himself only a moment before he shouted back his answer.
‘I can’t. If I don’t ride this charge, then I’ll never have the guts to ride another.’
Caradoc cocked his head to one side and considered him.
‘Well and good, then, lad. We might all be doing our listening and singing in the Otherlands, anyway.’
Caradoc turned his horse, raised his javelin, then broke into a gallop straight for the enemy lines. With a howl of warcries, the troop burst after him, a ragged race of shrieking men across the meadow. Maddyn saw the waiting infantry shudder in a wave-ripple of fear, but they held.
‘Follow my lead!’ Aethan screamed. ‘Throw that javelin