Free The King’s Assassin by Angus Donald Page B

knights and footmen, perhaps several hundreds, slipping into the river, some holding the tails of their swimming horses, others just taking the plunge and splashing their way across to the far side. On the bank, other men still in the saddle were urging horses down into the flow as well.
    We were about to be flanked.
    ‘It’s time to go,’ I said. ‘Mastin, on my command, I want every arrow you have loosed at the enemy, then we’ll all go together fast as we can.’ I raised my voice: ‘You hear that, lads: we will be taking our leave very shortly. On the command, “Retreat”, you have my permission to run like greyhounds for the harbour.’
    The cheer was more like a groan of exhaustion but I could see chins lifting with the thought of the harbour, ships and home.
    Sir Thomas Blood was beside me. His face was a mask of splashed gore and his long-sword dripped. But he seemed unhurt. ‘You are to lead them, Thomas,’ I said. ‘Get them to the harbour when I give the word. Oh, and well done, by the way.’
    The young man smiled. ‘Lady Luck was with us, Sir Alan – this time!’ he said and began to push his way through the archers to the rear of the bridge.
    ‘God’s great dangling ball-sack, Alan, surely we can hold them a little longer. I’ve hardly got into my stride…’ Little John actually looked aggrieved that we were going to quit this place of blood, suffering and death.
    ‘If we don’t go now, we will never get out alive,’ I said, and pointed upstream where a few sodden French men-at-arms were already on the north side of the river. ‘If they get behind us, we’re done for. And I’m not going to die for no reason. Robin said hold as long as we can. We’ve done that.’
    ‘I could take care of those half-drowned pip-squeaks all on my lonesome,’ said John, jerking his chin at the French across the river. ‘Just let me—’
    ‘No, John.’ I put my hand on his brawny forearm. ‘It’s time to go.’
    ‘Mastin,’ I said to the hairy bow-master, ‘give them a fond farewell … Now!’
    The bows creaked one more time and the arrows flew and were swallowed by the smoke. But I could hear the chink of steel tips on iron mail, hear shouts of anger and pain and make out the shapes of men writhing and falling.
    I gave the order. Sir Thomas led the men across the bridge, pell-mell, sixty or so surviving Englishmen only an inch away from panic, sprinting across the cobbles on the far side of the river, plunging into the maze of streets, heading north towards the sea. Little John and I were the last two men off the bridge.
    And Miles.
    Robin’s son was still consumed by the soaring triumph of his kill, and his white, grinning, bleeding face was close by my left shoulder. It was clear that he took my command for him to stay close to me seriously. As the last of our men disappeared into the smouldering town, the three of us took one final look at the French cavalry moving forward at last in the smoke-filled square and then we, too, turned our backs and sprinted over the bridge after our comrades.
    We ran for our lives. I could clearly hear the shouting of the horsemen behind us, the rage of fighting men denied their revenge, and the terrifying clatter of horses’ hooves on the wooden slats of the bridge. For a moment, I thought we had left it too late and we would be ridden down. We flew down a wide street with tall timbered houses on either side, and shops, looted and abandoned, gaping open at street level.
    A bald man in a bloody apron flew out of a doorway to my right, a butcher’s cleaver in his right hand, a snarl on his lips. God knows how long he had been hiding, awaiting his chance. I had no time for thought, Fidelity licked out and plunged straight into his belly. The man was brought up short, impaled on my weapon. His face twitched in surprise and pain. His cleaver rang out sharply as it hit the cobbles. But I did not stop; I tugged Fidelity free from his falling body even as we charged