first half-mile—it had stiffened over the last few days due to enforced inactivity—but as they continued he found himself walking and even running over difficult ground more easily and well able to keep up with his men.
Diggory, ahead, stopped, keeping his head lowered, and signalled that they were now getting close to the road. Rob turned and cautioned his men with a gesture to silence and warily and quietly approached to squat behind Diggory.
They were now able to see clearly from cover the road to Brinklow Village. Diggory turned slightly as both of them heard the sound of considerable number of horsemen approaching. Rob turned and signalled again to his men. Silently, without the need for further instruction, they rose from their crouched positions and began to position themselves for ambush.
Sym and Diggory Fletcher, both fine archers, began to look to their long bows. Silas Whitcome and Piers Martine had both been with Rob for some time in service, both in London and Calais. Each was preparing himself for combat in his own way. Silas was easing his sword in its scabbard as Rob was his own weapon.
The Frenchmen had already found himself a suitable tree and sat astride a branch, giving him an excellent view of the road while still affording him some measure of bare branches for cover. His own deadly crossbow was ready for action.
The company of horsemen came steadily on. Rob could hear one female voice chattering on and judged Sym had been right in assuming it was a maidservant who was riding pillion. His whole body was tensed now, ready for action and, deliberately, he quietened his breathing. It was essential that each man of his company performed now to the best of his ability and experience.
He trusted all of them. The Frenchman was a fighting machine in his own right and Silas was steady and careful, not one to rush into danger without conscious thought. The Fletchers he had not seen in action recently, but knew they were experienced men-at-arms of his father’s company; he relied on them to do well in this coming engagement.
The first two men of the advancing escort were in sight now and Rob saw Diggory rise and nock his first arrow. He did not wait for orders. He knew well enough it was necessary for the company to come further into range before dispatching his fatal feathered missile.
Rob was waiting, half-stooped, his back hand ready to signal a message to Sym and Silas behind him. Piers, he knew, had a very clear view and, like Diggory, would take his own time.
The Hoyland escort came on, riding two by two. He could see the cold winter light glinting on their metal salets and the devices on their leather jacks were easily recognisable. He breathed a sigh of relief. It would not do to attack some other poor unsuspecting wight on the road going innocently about his business.
Behind the first two came one of the sumpter mules Diggory had spoken of and a single man-at-arms, with a woman clutching anxiously at his waist riding pillion. Rob cursed under his breath as he saw her. He would have preferred the wench to have been riding at the rear of the escort with the other mule he could see. He had no wish to see her fall victim to an arrow but, already, Diggory had loosed off his first shot.
The leading man, presumably the sergeant, gave a half-cry and fell forward over his horse’s head. The beast rose, forelegs in the air, whinnying in sudden panic, and reared across the path of the fellow who rode beside him.
The man bellowed a warning shout to those of his company behind and inexpertly tried to extricate his own mount from the oncoming hoofs of his erstwhile partner’s mount.
Pandemonium broke out in an instant. Arrows flew from cover and two other men screamed and fell. The road was now blocked by a company of plunging mounts and the noise of panicked bellows from those still in the saddle. It took only moments for Rob to establish control of the situation. He had only to emerge from cover, dash into the road and seize the reins of one of the plunging, frenzied horses, pulling the beast to a standstill.
He called a crisp, decisive command to the remaining men-at-arms to surrender.
‘Throw down your arms and dismount. You are my prisoners. My men have you all well in their sights.’
All of his men but Piers, who remained at his vantage point in the tree, emerged from cover and stood, bows full-stretched, threateningly. Silas had already dashed up to another of the men who gave signs of giving further trouble and neatly held his sword too close to the fellow’s throat.
A woman’s voice broke across the confused chaos. ‘Desist. There is no point in dooming yourselves. This outlaw robber has the upper hand. I’d have no more blood spilt on my behalf in a vain attempt to protect me.’
Rob looked up, startled to see that the palfrey which was bucking under his hand on the reins was carrying Mistress Clare Hoyland.
She leaned down to try and soothe her frightened mount with a reassuring pat and, recognising Rob immediately, said coldly, ‘I see you have so far escaped the King’s justice, Master Devane. Very fortunate for you, less lucky for my escort.’
The horse quietened as she spoke to it soothingly and Rob relaxed his tight grip on the rein and gave her a mocking half-bow. Behind them the men of her escort were sullenly obeying him and dismounting. Silas was efficiently collecting up their discarded weapons. Three men still lay on the ground, one very still and two others groaning and cursing from the pain of arrow wounds.
The woman mounted pillion was screaming shrilly and hysterically beating away the hands of the soldier behind whom she’d been riding as he vainly attempted to lift her down from the saddle.
‘Bridget, be quiet,’ Mistress Hoyland snapped. ‘You cannot be hurt badly, if at all, to be able to scream like that.’
She herself remained mounted, proudly looking down at her attacker.
Silas sidled up to Rob, carrying his toll of weapons, swords and daggers.
‘There’s no sign of Sir Gilbert Hoyland,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘It looks like he isn’t in the company.’
Rob cursed beneath his breath and turned to the girl, seemingly unafraid, who managed her palfrey skilfully despite its continued nervous sidling. She was dressed in mourning in a black fur-lined frieze cloak, suitable for travelling, and her black hood, drawn up against the winter chill, covered her simple white linen coif.
He said, his ill temper mounting at the unexpected turn of events, hardening his tone, ‘Where is your uncle, mistress?’
Her shoulders rose and fell only slightly. ‘He is on his way to London, sir, though why his whereabouts should concern you, I have no idea.’
His blue eyes were staring at her accusingly. ‘He left you to travel without his protection?’
Her chin lifted a trifle. ‘He accompanied me as far as Lutterworth and then took the Watling Street road to London.’ She hesitated for a fraction of a moment then, feeling she needed to make some excuse for her uncle’s conduct, added, ‘I understand he had urgent business at Westminster.’
‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ Silas murmured at Rob’s ear. ‘What do we do now? Do you want me to deal with the rest of the escort? Master Rob, we should be moving off the road.’
Rob nodded in irritation. His gaze passed to the little knot of defeated Hoyland men-at-arms who had gathered defensively close together and were clearly concerned about their own fate. As yet they had made no attempt to go to the help of their injured comrades.
Rob
