Ranulf knew they would scurry back to their holes. He was close to apprehending them, but they were like sprites, disappearing into the mist when he got too close. His men were tired, cold, and hungry after two days in the saddle.
Thankfully, the manor was untouched, but that was little comfort as Ranulf surveyed the damage. Grain supplies were already scarce, but he would have to find some if he hoped to have grain for the harvest come November.
Ranulf turned to the man next to him. Sir Gilbret de la Haye’s expression was a mask of revulsion. None of his normal good cheer was evident in the hard line of his face. It was Sir Gilbret’s job to find surplus grain and organize the villeins to repair the damage to their homes and livelihoods. No easy task. Then come November, it was his task to ensure the king’s taxes were paid.
God’s blood, this raiding had to stop before it ruined him.
“I’ll leave you here to begin work on repairs, and salvage what you can.” Ranulf didn’t try to hide the edge in his voice.
“My lord.” Sir Gilbret nodded.
Now, morning on the third day, and still no sign of his foe. Darkness hovered over the forest, the day barely begun. He detested the sense of impotence. It sat like a familiar cloak about his shoulders. His inability to apprehend the outlaws only served to urge him on.
He couldn’t fail.
Not one to accept defeat easily, he prided himself on his superior skill as a warrior who knew the currency of patience. “God’s teeth, I’ll have them before the day’s out!” More a growl than a statement—he shifted in his saddle when he realized he’d spoken aloud.
Rage and indignation were his constant companions. He knew if he couldn’t secure the border, all would be lost.
It rankled that there were barons still profiting from the lawlessness in these northern borderlands, despite the king’s decree. Ranulf had his suspicions as to who was behind the raid, but he would have to prove that. If he could catch the men responsible for the raids, he might be able to get a confession from them to take to the king.
“God save me from fools!” He spat his frustration, as he searched ahead for signs of his scouts. They had reported tracking a small group of raiders the previous day and had kept them in their sights.
Ranulf’s knights, and their squires, anticipated a fight. He could sense it. The air hummed with tension. Braced for attack, each man’s hand was on his sword.
Waiting.
Expectant.
The sound of thundering hooves erupted out of the predawn silence. A lone rider advanced as though Cerberus himself was at his heels. The rider reeled his horse to an abrupt halt, dirt and leaf litter flying.
“We’ve spied them not two miles west, my lord.” Gasping for breath, the young knight could hardly contain his excitement. “They’ve made camp in a clearing.” The man’s zeal was contagious. The gathered knights bristled with the prospect of shedding the enemy’s blood.
Ranulf was not going to fail this time. “Go back and keep eyes on them, but don’t approach.” With a nod, the young knight turned his horse and sped into the depths of the forest.
“Fulke, to me!”
“My lord?”
“Take three men and go north for a mile, then turn west. We shall take them from both sides.”
Something akin to savage delight gleamed in the man’s eyes. “Let the games begin.” A smile showing white teeth against a black beard revealed a fiendish relish.
“Ah, Fulke, you are a bloodthirsty devil.”
The man’s smile exposed more of his teeth. “Aye, I am, my lord.”
Ranulf returned his smile. “I’m glad for it, my friend. Now go. Godspeed.” Ranulf knew surprise was their best chance of capturing the men who had laid waste to his lands for the past month. Villages burned, crops destroyed, children and women made orphans and widows. The pillaging and murdering would stop.
He signaled his remaining men to follow in formation, and not bothering to look behind, he urged his great horse forward.
The sun was still low on the landscape when Ranulf came upon his scout.
“They camp in a clearing yonder, my lord,” he said, inclining his head in the direction of the rising sun.
Ranulf signaled for his men to spread out as they walked their mounts through the forest. Ahead lay the clearing. It sat at the elbow of a small stream. Early morning mist swirled around two men practicing with swords. Surrounding the two men were the rest of the mercenaries watching them fight. Fools, they hadn’t bothered to post a sentry.
A good start. Ranulf couldn’t believe his luck. Ill-trained, or arrogant? He decided they were arrogant fools to think they were safe on his lands.
He motioned for his men to make ready.
Not taking his eyes off the group of men, he tensed his thighs in a silent command for his horse to move forward, every muscle in his body poised to attack. With a great roar, he gave the order to charge. Surprise would gain him a swift victory.
The fight was a rout. Men on foot were no match for mounted knights. He unsheathed his sword as a man ran directly into his path, then with a vicious sweeping stroke severed his head from his neck. Ranulf watched as he crumpled to the ground. He urged his mount on towards the next man. He too fell without a sound. Bloodlust surged through him. His right arm pulsated with the urge to savage those responsible for the atrocities at Catcleugh. He chose his next victim, who he dispatched with ease, cleaving his head in two. He looked among the trees; at the far end of the clearing stood the man he suspected was the leader of this rabble.
“God’s teeth!” The curse was an expression of his frustration and blood lust. Fulke had got to the man first. Ranulf wanted blood. His body shook with the urge to destroy anyone or thing in his way. Fighting to gain control of his fury, he gulped great mouthfuls of air. His emotions under control, he assessed the scene.
The fight was over almost before it began. Brief, vicious, and bloody, it left the clearing littered with bodies. The brigands had lost several of their number in the melee. Others moaned as they lay injured. They wouldn’t see the rising of a new day. All his men and their mounts were accounted for. Bloodied, yes. Exultant, of course. St. Martin had been gracious.
Ranulf felt no remorse at the loss of life. The few mercenaries who survived with only minor injuries would be begging for death by the time he finished with them.
He walked his horse toward the one he suspected was the leader. No escape. Ranulf smiled. A huge lump of a man with long fair hair stood defiant as Ranulf stood before him. The tip of Ranulf’s sword touched his neck. “I’ve been waiting for the pleasure of your blood on my sword. It would seem heaven is on my side.” He was almost casual in his tone. Then with a quick flick of his wrist his sword sliced across the man’s exposed cheek. A trail of blood dribbled down his face and dripped off his chin. It surprised Ranulf to see that the man’s hauberk was of good quality. His sword, which lay at his feet, was also a magnificent weapon. This man was of some consequence.
Without taking his eyes off Ranulf, the mercenary merely grinned, revealing a mouth of surprisingly straight, white teeth. “Ranulf d’Argentan, you’ll get no satisfaction this day.” He spat a great glop of phlegm, which landed on Ranulf’s boot.
It took all the control he possessed not to plunge his sword into the man’s neck. A slow snarl escaped his lips. “By the time I’m finished with you you’ll be crying for your mother’s paps.” He allowed a slow, threatening smile to slide across his face. “Fulke, tie him to your mount. Let’s see how well he enjoys nipping at a Norman’s heels.”