The Last Crusaders: The Great Siege Read Online Free Page A

their legs and mud-spattered boots. One had a sword already drawn from the scabbard, the other held a storm lantern. He raised it high and both were eerily illuminated. The one with the lantern pushed back his hood to reveal unkempt fair hair and a beard the colour of old tallow, and high ruddy cheeks. The other did likewise, showing a much darker, more threatening appearance. Black beard and black burning eyes, the whites bloodshot, making him look like a bull of dangerous and evil temperament. His sword hung loosely from a great right hand.
    ‘No, sir, no!’ cried a voice from behind Nicholas. It was Hodge. He even put out an arm to restrain his master, but old Sir Franciswould have none of it. He would die defending his household if need be.
    ‘Out of my way, boy!’ he roared. He pulled down the sword in its scabbard that hung above the fireplace and strode out into the hall. Or strode as best he could, with his aged joints, his left leg crooked from an ancient wound.
    The tallow-headed ruffian smiled to see the old warrior.
    ‘We have interrupted you at some game?’ he said. ‘Or perhaps some more spiritual exercise? Have you a visitor?’
    Nicholas glanced back in terror to see if Father Matthew was hidden yet.
    A mistake.
    The fairhead said, ‘Ah, so he’s in there.’
    Blackbeard beside him said nothing. He was not one for talking, it was clear. Killing was more his temper.
    ‘Please,’ said the first ruffian. ‘Pray continue, Sir Francis.’ And both of them took a step forward into the hall out of the rain. Blackbeard kicked the door shut behind him and lazily, insultingly, sheathed his own sword. They seemed even bigger now, infernal figures, lit only by their own lantern and the single flickering candle of a servant. The girls whimpered in terror. The youngest, little Lettice, held a tiny white handkerchief up to her eyes so she couldn’t see. Nicholas groped at his belt and found he wasn’t even carrying his dagger. Beside him, Hodge was slowly reaching out for a horsecrop that lay on the oak chest. Much good would that do him against two such men. Yet even at that slight movement, Blackbeard’s gaze turned on Hodge and his reddened eyes burned like coals in the night. Hodge froze.
    ‘God damn you,’ muttered Sir Francis, standing protectively before all his household, still powerfully built despite his crooked leg. ‘Coming to my home with weapons drawn. Whatever my offence may be, I have the same right to a trial as any freeborn Englishman. You are no agents of the Queen or of the Church, you are nothing but low criminals. And if you take one step further into my house, your guts will feel my sword.’
    The fairhead smiled pleasantly. ‘The weapon looks rusted in its sheath.’
    Sir Francis growled and pulled hard at his sword hilt – and sure enough, the scabbard leapt with it.
    The fairhead gazed keenly at Sir Francis, eyes gleaming. Raindrops ran down his cheeks and beard, and water puddled on the flagstones round his battered leather boots. When he spoke his voice was strangely softened, cracked with emotion. He said words that none but Sir Francis himself could have understood, tenderly, with not a hint of sarcasm. At the sight of the old man’s dauntless courage, trying to pull a rusty sword from its scabbard in solitary defence of his ancestral home, the fairhead murmured, ‘Ah, Brother Francis. The Religion hath need of thee, and such as thee.’
    Then he pulled his cloak down at the throat to reveal a brilliant silver cross on a chain. A cross with four equal arms and eight points.
    Sir Francis let go of his sword. ‘My brothers!’ he gasped.
    Nicholas stared rapt at the blazing silver cross, and it seemed to burn into his eyes forever.
    The strangers locked the door again behind them, using the key this time. Nicholas wanted to know how they had unlocked it from without, what mysterious trickery they had used. The fairhead seemed to sense his burning curiosity, but only smiled