a tall slender figure appeared in the gap: a man’s form from shoulders to the tips of his tall black boots, but bearing the head of an enormous bird with a weird skull-like black face and a wickedly long, narrow beak. In its hand, the creature clutched a longbow with an arrow nocked to the string. The smooth, expressionless face surveyed the churning turmoil with a quick sweep of its head, picked out Gysburne, and directed an arrow at him. The marshal, who was already wheeling his horse, took the arrow on his shield as three more archers joined the creature and proceeded to loose shaft after shaft at will into the melee.
“Retreat!” cried Gysburne, trying to make himself heard above the commotion. “Retreat!”
Arrows singing around his ears, Guy put his head down and raced from the yard. Those soldiers still in the saddle, and those yet able to walk or run, followed. Five more met their deaths before the last of the knights had cleared the yard.
The Ffreinc raiding party continued to a place beyond arrow’s reach and halted to regroup.
“What was that?” shouted Captain Aloin as he came galloping in beside the marshal. “What in the holy name was that?”
“That was King Raven,” replied Guy, pulling an arrow from his shield, and another from the cantle of his saddle. “That was the fiend at his worst.”
“By the blood,” breathed the captain. “How many were with him?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter!” Captain Aloin cried in stunned disbelief. Gazing quickly around him, he counted those who had escaped the massacre. “Are you insane? We’ve lost more than half our men in a one-sided slaughter and you say it doesn’t matter?”
“Six or sixty,” muttered Guy. “What does it matter? We were beaten by those God-cursed arrows.”
“This is an outrage,” growled the captain of the king’s men. “Mark me, by heaven, someone will pay for this.”
“I daresay they will,” agreed Guy, looking away towards the forest, where he imagined he saw the glint of sunlight off a steel blade.
“What are we to do now?” demanded Aloin. “Are we to retreat and let the bastards get away with it?”
“We run, but they won’t get away,” said Guy. “Sheriff de Glanville will see to that.”
CHAPTER 28
Are they gone?” asked Owain, his fingers tight around the arrow nocked to his bowstring.
“Shhh,” said Iwan gently. “Stay sharp. We’ll wait just a little and then take a look round.” He turned to Siarles, crouched low behind the doorpost of the farmhouse. “See to it, Siarles, but keep an eye out for the wounded. There might be some fight in one or two yet.”
Siarles nodded and continued to watch the yard from one of the small windows. Nothing moved outside. The three archers waited a few moments more, alert, arrows on string, listening for any sound of returning horses—but, save for a low, whimpering moan from one of the fallen soldiers, all seemed quiet enough. Siarles rose and stepped lightly through the door, paused and looked around, then disappeared into the yard at a run. He was back a few moments later saying, “They’ve gone. It’s safe to come out.”
As they stepped from the house, Bran, Tomas, and Rhoddi emerged from the barn. “To me, men!” Bran called, pulling off the hooded raven mask. When everyone had gathered, he said, “Strip the dead of anything useful. Throw it in the wagons and let’s fly home. Scarlet and the others will be tired of waiting.”
“Aren’t we going to give back all the supplies they’ve stolen?” asked Owain.
“Aye, lad,” replied Iwan, “but not now, not today.”
“Your concern does you credit, Owain,” Bran told him. “But the enemy will return to the caer and muster the rest of the soldiers to come and retrieve their dead. Unless we hurry, we’ll meet them again, and this time we’ll not own the advantage.”
“Too many Ffreinc around for the few of us,” Iwan told him. “We’ll return the supplies when it’s a mite safer.”
“There’s eighteen fewer Ffreinc now than there were a while ago,” announced Siarles, who had been making a count. “And four more that will likely join ’em before the sun is over the barn.”
“Twenty-two!” gasped Rhoddi. “God help us, that must be near half their force—destroyed in one battle.”
“There will be hell to pay,” muttered Tomas as the realization of the enormity of their success came over him.
“Too right, there will,” agreed Bran. “But we must make very sure it is the abbot who pays. Come, men, let’s be