Chapter 43
Martin dashed down the hill after Ben and the ragtag soldiers. He brought up his gun to fill them with buckshot, but they dodged back and forth, throwing off his aim. The ground underneath his feet was slippery. He only had four or five shells left. One of them had Ben’s name on it.
The soldiers shouted as they dashed toward the barn. The door swung open, and two men peered out, looking puzzled. The rest came hurtling toward them and streamed inside.
“Burn it!” Ben shouted, at their heels. “Smash everything!”
Martin made it to the bottom of the grassy slope. If he’d thought about it, he never would have charged into a room alone with fourteen armed men, but Aaron could still be in there. He ratcheted back his shotgun and kicked the door wide.
The men inside were piling up a heap of cloth bales and smashing stools and pieces of looms on top of them. One knelt beside the pile with flint and steel, striking furiously to make a spark.
Martin was on top of them before the man could get the fire going, and kicked the steel out of his hand. The man turned terrified eyes up at him, and dashed out the doorway without a word.
“Come back here, you coward!” Ben snarled. The man vanished out of the door.
The rest of the men pulled shelves and tools off the wall and added them to the heap. Another knelt down with tinder and steel. He struck a light and tipped a ledger page into the small flame.
“Leave those alone!” Martin bellowed. He brought up his shotgun. Ben ducked behind the shelves of folded cloth. The up-timer hesitated. He didn’t want to destroy the weavers’ hard work, but he had the man cornered.
Then, to his horror, Ben reached down with a cry of triumph.
“Looking for him?” the pockmarked man asked. He hauled Aaron out of the heap of fabric bolts by his neck. Aaron struggled, but Ben had a tight grip on him. He pulled the boy in front of him.
“Are you all right, son?” Martin asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.
Aaron couldn’t choke out a reply, but he nodded.
Martin had the gun leveled at Ben’s head. Martin could tell that he’d take a couple of buckshot pellets to the face. Blood had dribbled down his neck.
“Let him go or I will kill you.”
“You speak English,” Ben said. “So, it’s true. You’re not from the Germanies. You’re an American!” He wore a fierce grin. A sharp knife suddenly appeared in his hand. He held it to Aaron’s throat. Martin’s son struggled until he felt the blade touch his skin, and froze. “Is that an American gun? I’ll take that. Hand it over to me.”
“Let my boy go.”
“Not until I have that gun.” Ben gestured with the knife. He kept Aaron in front of him.
The mercenaries started pulling the looms over. When they yanked the first aqualators away from the wall, water came spurting out of the valves.
The sudden jets of water distracted Ben for one vital second. The knife hand went wide.
“Drop, boy!” Martin shouted.
Aaron went limp and fell to the floor, away from the blade. Ben lost his grip on the boy. He bent over to grab him, but missed.
Martin, seeing his chance, waited for Ben to straighten up, and pulled the trigger. Ben threw up an arm to shield his face.
Most of the buckshot hit Ben in the chest and arm. They ricocheted off his breastplate and greaves, and knocked his helmet flying. Martin saw blood spurt from his wrist. He’d have to hit him lower. Stray pellets hit several of the ruffians pulling the shop apart. He racked the gun again.
But Ben was on the move. He was a skilled rogue. The mercenary ducked around his fellows, using them for cover. Martin tracked him with the shotgun’s barrel, looking for the best shot.
Ben tore loose a piece of old Fred’s loom and threw it at him. Martin sidestepped it and aimed again.
Then, he fell sprawling on the floor. Two of the men tackled him from behind and began punching him in the kidneys. One sat down on his back and began hammering his head against the floor.
Martin struggled to get up. He tried to turn his head. Had Aaron made it outside? The place was full of old, dried wood. It was going to go up in flames. He fought to hold onto his gun, but it seemed like ten people were trying to pull it out of his hands. Feet connected with his ribs, but he was not going to let go.
* * *
Aaron crawled underneath the leg of the nearest loom, then looked around. Dad! Dad was in trouble! Aaron crawled close to the wall of the weavers’ shed, making for the door. It seemed a mile away. He had to get more help. No time to save the record player. His mom would much rather get Martin back in one piece than Johnny Cash’s Greatest Hits.
The soldiers were creating chaos, flinging lengths of cloth out like they were making beds, and yanking the equipment away from the walls. One hefted a huge cone of dark blue yarn, Fred Wilkinson’s pride and joy for his serge weaving, and heaved it at him. It hit Aaron in the side, knocking him over. The man laughed like crazy, and went on tossing around the neat spools and shuttles. Aaron rolled back onto his hands and knees and moved as fast as he could, ignoring his bruised ribs.
At last, he made it to the door. He climbed to his feet and scrambled outside. The manor house! There were soldiers fighting all around the side. Some looked like the men in the weavers’ shed, but a lot more had on plaid skirts and broad caps like French berets. One of them spotted him, pointed and let out a loud whistle.
Aaron didn’t wait to find out what the whistle meant. He didn’t dare go that way. He hobbled as fast as he could toward the low bridge over the stream. He’d find help at one of the farms.
To his relief, he heard people shouting to him. A host of horses and wagons was riding toward him on the other side of the bridge. The weavers were back! Ivy stood up in the back of a cart and waved to him.
Aaron waved back frantically.
“Dad’s in there! They’re tearing up the barn!”
“The hell they are!” Fred Wilkinson bellowed, brandishing a pitchfork. He and his sons led a force of men armed with farm implements, shears, and all kinds of weird ironwork straight into the tall shed. Master Blackford spurred his horse over the span.
Smoke had begun to billow out of the building.
“Here you go!” Daniel Taylor tossed Aaron an ancient pickaxe fixed to a long handle. “Come on, we’ll get your dad out! Some of you, get water! Hurry!”
Aaron charged after his friends.
Inside, the chaos had gotten far worse. One of the looms was on fire, and the invaders had pulled the aqualators down. Despite the water spraying them in the face, they were smashing the clay tiles on the floor. Their captain directed them from one loom to another, ensuring that none of the water computers survived intact.
“Now, you stop that!” Fred shouted. He rushed at them, ready to spear the captain with his fork. The man tried to dodge him, and tripped. Fred started beating him with the heavy metal tines.
“Let me go!” the man shouted in a German accent. “I surrender! Leave off!”
Two of the weavers hauled him to his feet and tied him up, using some of the ropes of yarn that had been strewn across the floor.
The other invaders tried to rush toward the door, but the weavers had no intention of letting them go. The rage at seeing their workshop in pieces sent them into a frenzy. The usually calm Daniel Taylor went after the men attacking Martin, smacking them with the billhook. They ducked, covering their bleeding heads. Daniel’s apprentices gathered around, beating the attackers with their makeshift weapons. Martin rolled out from underneath the melee and came to his feet with the shotgun still in his hands. His teeth were clenched.
He spotted Aaron. “Get the record player and get out of here. Now!”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’ll help you,” Ivy said.
She and Aaron dashed to the end of the room and dove into the shadows where he had left the boxes. To his horror, Ben crouched there. He grabbed Ivy’s wrist.
“Dad!” Aaron shouted.
This time, they weren’t alone. At his cry, half a dozen apprentices and journeymen came rushing up behind him. Ben rose, holding his knife to Aaron’s belly. He sheathed it and seized the pickaxe from Aaron’s hand. The blade had been honed sharp. He put it underneath Ivy’s neck.
“Now, you will let us out of here,” the pockmarked man said. He coughed, as the smoke was getting thick. “Drop the gun and move back. Go!”
The crowd of defenders fell still. They moved backward, their eyes fixed on the man, the blade, and the girl. Martin dropped the shotgun. It clattered on the floor.
Ben pushed Ivy toward the door. He stooped to pick up the long gun, but Martin shoved it under the nearest loom with his foot. Ben snarled, but kept moving, backing away, never letting his eyes move from his opponents. The rest of the mercenaries moved with their leader. Aaron kept pace with Ben, staying far enough away not to endanger Ivy. He knew the subterfuge of distraction wouldn’t work a second time. He shot his father a helpless look.
Martin let his eyes go over Ben’s shoulder. Aaron wondered what he was seeing. They were nearly all the way out. Then—
Splash!
Alder and Samuel Wilkinson shot the buckets of water they were carrying straight into Ben’s face. That was long enough for Ivy to kick Ben in the knee. He staggered. She twisted out of his grip and ran to her father. Aaron rushed at the man and wrestled for the axe. In moments, half a dozen men had pounced on Ben, kicking and punching him, forcing him to the ground. Martin slowly approached, the shotgun under his arm.
Ben looked up at him. He showed his teeth in a mouth filled with blood. “Yer going to shoot me now, aren’t you?”
Martin swung the gun out and turned it barrel side up. “You’re not worth the ammunition.” He brought the stock down on Ben’s head like a hammer. Aaron cringed at the THUD. Then, Martin turned and walked away.
None of those wrecking the equipment escaped, either. They were tied up and marched outside, very much the worse for wear. Then everyone joined in a line to fill buckets from the stream and throw the water onto the blaze.
“It’s a mercy that woolens won’t burn easily,” Master Matthew said, when the last smoldering ember had been stamped out. “We didn’t lose much of them. They’ll all have to be cleaned and treaded again to get the smell of smoke out of it. But, by the Lord, the aqualators! Every one of them is ruined!” He looked around in dismay.
“We’ll send for replacements,” Aaron assured them. “It’ll cost for the rush order, but we could get them in a few months.
“Months! We’ve got orders to fill,” Master Walter said, glumly. “These wretches have a lot to answer for.”
“These men will face justice at once,” Master Blackford said, his face set. “Is Sir Timothy all right?”
“Trapped in the house, sir,” Aaron said.
He looked up the hill. The scene had gone quiet, too quiet. All of the fighting seemed to have stopped.
The weavers gathered themselves together and crept up the hill toward the house.
* * *
The line of men forcing themselves into the front hallway seemed never ending. Sir Timothy came around the corner again and discharged the ancient hunting rifle into the mass of invaders. Nat braced the historic pike at an angle. Two men ducked around the breach in the pile of furniture, swinging swords and long knives. When he saw the first appear, a burly man in a faded gray tunic, he jabbed the point into the man’s side. The ruffian turned, snarling. Nat hadn’t hit him hard enough to do any harm.
“Ah, that’s no’ the way to do it, master!” Will, one of the grooms, said. He swung a shovel at the man in gray and knocked him backwards. The man staggered and came back again, sword raised. Tim, another groom, met the blow with an iron rod from the stable. The two of them grappled, trying to disarm the other. The man pushed Tim away and slashed with his sword. Tim cried out. Blood welled up from his sleeve. Will smashed down on the intruder’s head with the shovel. The man fell. Will kept raining down blows until the man stopped moving.
The second man raised a pair of pistols and fired. Nat ducked as soon as he saw them. The explosive discharge made his ears ring. He felt the rush of one ball pass overhead, but there was a burning sensation along his scalp. Hot liquid poured down into his eyes. Blinded by his own blood, he jabbed the point again and again, retreating past the door of the sitting room. Percy and two footmen pushed between him and the invaders. The man who had shot his guns drew a knife. Percy brought the metal rod down on his shoulder. The blade fell, but the ruffian went for him with outstretched hands. Nat jumped on the man’s back and was swung around as if he weighed nothing, while the footmen wrestled with the other fighter. His blood spattered them both.
Behind him, his father and the groundskeepers were fighting with a seemingly endless line of men coming in from outside. Martin had never returned. He had gone out after one of the leaders. Things continued falling on the incomers from the window above, including burning brands. Bravo, Margaret, even if they barely slowed down the intruders.
“Keep them from going upstairs!” Sir Timothy cried. He tried to withdraw to load his rifle again, but it was impossible. Instead, he turned it to use the stock as a bludgeon.
Piers the reeve fought like a demon. The family knew that he had served the king in battle, hearing stories from him around the fire during the winter. They’d never seen his prowess in person. Now Nat understood why he had been given a commendation. He wielded a sword in one hand and a cook’s knife in the other. A big man in a red coat went for Sir Timothy. The master of the house swung his blunderbuss and connected with the side of the man’s head. He didn’t even flinch. Piers lunged with his long blade and stabbed him in the back of the left knee. The man let out a gasp of pain, but kept moving. Piers closed the distance and brought the knife up, plunging it into the attacker’s side. Blood welled, darkening the coat in a deeper shade of red. As the invader toppled, Piers turned, looking for other opponents.
Seeing their giant felled by the manor’s swordsman, no invader wanted to face him alone. Three men circled Piers. The reeve made feints with his now bloody sword, keeping them out of arm’s reach. He made a lightning-fast sally against the enemy on the left. Then, Nat heard a crack. Piers looked down at his chest, and deflated toward the floor. Thick, dark redness colored his normally neat waistcoat.
“Piers!” Nat cried. He couldn’t tell if the man was alive or dead.
Sir Timothy, kept at bay beside the groundskeepers, took a hasty glance toward his fallen friend.
“Keep fighting, Nat,” he said. “I pray he will survive. I pray we all will.”
Nat stood with his back to the main staircase. He swung the pike at one face after another. He stopped seeing individual features or uniforms, only hitting out at people he didn’t know. He dashed blood away from his face. The wound in his scalp stung. His arms felt heavier and heavier.
The attackers seemed endless in number. The servants were doing far more than he could. He was grateful for them. Soon, they were stepping on bodies. Some groaned, but others lay still. At least one had been speared by the pike in his hands. He had to keep fighting, to save his family. His mother and sisters were above stairs. They must be protected. He was a de Beauchamp. If only James was there. If only Julian had lived! He was the weakest of the brothers, and he knew it. But he would make his father proud.
Two men clambered over the fallen bookcase, heading straight for the stairs. They trod right on top of poor Piers. Nat swung the pike and hit their sword blades. They had more skills than some of his previous opponents. They parried and slashed at him. Nat’s pike went flying. He fell on his seat on the lowest steps. The men rushed at him. Nat felt on the floor for a weapon, any weapon, and came up with Piers’ sword in his hands. He gripped the hilt in both hands, and thrust it upward. To his amazement, it struck one of the onrushing thugs in the belly. The man gasped and his own sword fell. The other man brought his weapon down. Nat ducked, unable to forestall the blow, but the first man fell on top of him. He lay with his back on the stairs, pinned.
Then, a horn sounded from outside. All of them stopped still, looking out of the ruined front door. Horsemen, a whole company, came barreling toward the house. Around the dead man lying over him, Nat could just see them leaping off their steeds and rushing inside.
“Who are they?” Sir Timothy shouted.
Nat didn’t know, but they must be allies.
They came in, swords flashing, and disposed of one of the ruffians after another with the precision of a well-trained troop. The attackers realized that they were now the quarry. A few fled at once, but the most of them surrendered. Nat looked up with huge eyes as a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard came in and pulled the body of the attacker off him. He helped Nat up with a steady, gloved hand. His fellows disposed of the assailants harrowing his father, tied up those who surrendered, and tossed the bodies of the dead out of the door onto the stairs. Of the fallen defenders, they knelt to offer aid. To Nat’s relief, Piers was still breathing. A Scotsman with a pouch slung across his shoulder took lint and bandages out and pressed down upon the wound in the reeve’s chest.
The leader came to doff his hat. The rest of the new arrivals arrayed themselves behind their leader.
“Sir Timothy de Beauchamp?” the tall man asked, offering his hand to Nat’s father.
Sir Timothy gathered his wits and his dignity. His fine clothes were torn and splattered with blood. He straightened his lapels and clasped the outstretched hand.
“I am, sir. May I ask the name of our rescuer?”
“My name is James Douglas,” the tall man said. “Son of William Douglas, Marquess of Douglas and Earl of Angus. I’m…a friend of a friend.”
Sir Timothy frowned. “Who?”
“I’d rather say to the person for whom I was sent,” James said. “Your daughter, Margaret.”
“She…she is upstairs, sir,” Sir Timothy said. He turned to Percy, whose arm was being bandaged by one of the newcomers. “Pray fetch Mistress Margaret.”
“Nay,” James said, with a broad grin. “Will you let me call her?”
“If you wish, sir. I owe you more than a mere shout at my daughter.”
The tall Scotsman stood at the bottom of the stairs and let out a bellow that all but shook the house.
“Margaret de Beauchamp, come forth!”
* * *
Margaret heard the call. She looked out of the window. There did not seem to be a single living person outside. Amid the debris that she, her mother, and the servants had flung out, and the remains of the front door, lay a dozen or more dead bodies. A few of the picketed horses remained, but several had been taken in haste by the fleeing invaders. Instead, nearby the house was a couple dozen very fine steeds with polished tack and saddles. The newcomers had put an end to the fighting, but to what end? Did her father and brother survive? Where were the Craigs?
She looked at her mother. Delfine had stopped like a statue at the cry from below. Petronella still clung to her skirts.
“Who is that?” Margaret asked. “What do you think he wants? Where is Father?”
Lady de Beauchamp shook her head.
“If your father is not summoning you, then there are three possibilities, my child. One is that your father cannot call you, for one reason or another. Either he is wounded, or…” She swallowed. Margaret didn’t need her to finish the sentence. “Or this is our conqueror, and he requires us to submit to him.”
Margaret’s blood froze in her body. She picked up one of the curtain rods and brandished it like a sword.
“Or?” She hoped the second alternative wasn’t worse.
Delfine managed a tiny smile. “Or your father is allowing him to. Whichever it is, we cannot remain in here forever.” She spread a hand toward the ruined bed and the lack of all other furnishings. “There is nowhere left to sit.”
“Don’t go, mistress,” Hettie said, setting her chin in a defiant grimace. “I’ll go and see what he wants.”
Margaret pulled her spine as straight as the curtain rod. “I’ll go myself. He wants me.”
“Then I go with you, mistress,” Hettie said. Margaret smiled at her. She took her friend’s hand.
“Unbar the door.”
The kitchen maids made way for her. Margaret held herself upright, her chin high. She was all too aware that her hair was all over the place, her lace collar was askew, and her dress had splashes of soup all over it. But she manifested the dignity of a queen, and walked down the stairs with Hettie at her side.
Below, her father and brother stood amidst a force of men in green, black, and gray. Despite the horrendous mess and blood everywhere in the anteroom, the newcomers were relatively clean and tidy. Sir Timothy met her eyes. She looked for reassurance in his gaze, but he kept his face solemn. Nat’s face and shirt were covered with blood, and he had a white bandage covering the top of his head. Margaret was horrified, but she didn’t dare show any concern or fear.
At the bottom of the stairs, a tall man with red hair and beard awaited her. As she came to the last step, he drew back a pace and removed his hat.
“Mistress Margaret de Beauchamp?” he asked.
“I am,” she said, forcing her voice not to tremble.
He grinned broadly, showing teeth that were almost American in their whiteness. He felt in his belt pouch and brought out a small black box with a glass lens on the end. Margaret recognized it, and her eyes went wide.
“I am to tell you that Harry Lefferts sent me.”