Free The Bleeding Land by Giles Kristian

Dutch wars, and from what Mun knew of them they could be wildly unreliable. But the two in this stranger’s hands were steady and menacing and though Hook Nose had played no part in the skirmish, he had that look in his eye that suggested he had every faith in his weapons.
    ‘Please, sir,’ George Green called. Tied and helpless, the minister made a sorry sight. ‘For the love of God, do not think of murder.’
    ‘Shut your mouth, rat!’ the young man with the small eyes yelped, emboldened now as he jabbed his sword towards Green.
    Sir Francis cursed and, holding rapier and knife out wide, stepped back to allow Henry to get to his feet, which the younger man did, wincing because of the wound in his shoulder that was spilling blood down his doublet.
    ‘Who are you, sir?’ Sir Francis asked the round-shouldered man, though keeping one eye on Henry.
    ‘You are in no position to ask questions, Sir Francis,’ the man answered, his head cocked slightly to the right. He had something of an owl inspecting potential prey about him. ‘Now sheathe your blades if you will. This night has enough bite about it already.’
    ‘My father is counted a friend by His Majesty King Charles,’ Mun warned the man, gripping Priam’s reins in one hand and his own rapier in the other. ‘You would not dare give fire.’ Nearby, Miles Walton, whom Mun had knocked from his horse, was sitting on the frozen track, groaning and holding his head. None of the others, Tom noticed, had moved to help him.
    ‘With respect, Master Rivers, you do not know the first thing about me and are therefore unwise to make assumptions one way or the other,’ Hook Nose said, shadow-browed beneath his broad hat. His mount held still as a rock despite his master gripping pistols rather than reins. Henry and Snot Beard collected their swords while Walton and the younger man with the beady eyes looked at each other uncertainly, clearly perturbed at how the night’s events had galloped away with them barely clinging on.
    ‘Do as he says, Mun,’ Sir Francis commanded, sheathing his own blades. ‘You too, Tom.’
    Tom shook his head. ‘No, Father, I will not.’
    ‘Do not disobey me!’ Sir Francis yelled, spit flying. For a moment Tom eyeballed his father, hot breath pluming in clouds, then his lip curled and he nodded, sheathing his blade as Achilles whinnied his own protest.
    ‘Shoot the whoresons,’ Henry gnarred up at Hook Nose.
    ‘Shut your bone box, Henry,’ the man replied, pistols still pointing at Tom and Mun.
    Henry’s eyes bulged. He raised his sword and put it to Sir Francis’s neck.
    ‘Stand off, Henry,’ Mun snarled, ‘or I swear I will kill you even with a bullet in me.’
    Henry scowled, moving the point of his blade up so that it trembled a finger length from Sir Francis’s eye. The older man did not flinch. If anything he leant towards the blade as though daring Henry to make good its threat.
    ‘Lower your sword, Henry, or I will shoot you,’ Hook Nose said, pointing one of his weapons at Henry now.
    ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ Henry blurted.
    ‘I am doing what we came to do. We have Green and we will take him to answer for his crimes. I did not come to quarrel with these men.’
    ‘You are too late on that score, sir,’ Tom said, simmering with rage.
    But Hook Nose ignored him. ‘Help your friend, Henry,’ he said, nodding towards Walton who had risen on unsteady legs and was peering around himself as though confused as to where he was and how he had got there.
    ‘I will not tell you again,’ Hook Nose warned Henry, who shook his head dumbfounded and lowered his blade, stepping back from Sir Francis. ‘Thomas Rivers, you will lend Henry your saddle,’ he said, then shot Sir Francis a half smile, ‘seeing as his own is no longer useable. He may even return it to you.’ He shrugged his round shoulders. ‘On the other hand, he may keep it as compensation for the hurt you have done him and if you are lucky