Into The Fire Read Online Free PDF

hard and clearly into the sheath at his belt, and continues to shout. ‘Guillaume de Monterey! Laurent de Saval! I know you’re out there. Come to me here! In God’s name, come!’
    They come as a pack, and he knows none of those at the front, nor they him, and his hand is heading down towards his blade, because if he’s going to die it won’t be empty-handed, when he sees—
    ‘Patrick Ogilvy! You red-haired bastard! It’s me! Tomas! Here! Gairloch, to me! Patrick, in the name of God, come to me here! Tell them I’m the king’s man! Tell them I’m for France!’
    They are running flat out, but Ogilvy is a Strathclyde man, half Norse, with the fire-hair of the Vikings and a big, broad-shouldered body to match – truly, they could be brothers – and he breasts through the crowd, slamming men left and right, taking liberties that on other days would see him stabbed between the ribs by his own side, but this time he’s a captain, friend of the Maid, and he’s shouting, ‘Leave him! Leave him! It’s Tomas Rustbeard. He’s one of us! Leave him!’
    And they are together, clasping arm to arm, beard to beard, chest to chest, and Patrick Ogilvy is gabbling in a mix of French and lowland Scots, ‘Tomas? We thought we’d lost you. We thought you’d gone over to join the bastard English.’
    Well that’s reasonable, because he had done exactly that, and it would have been fantastically unlikely if nobody at all on the French side had seen him these past few days. Which is why he is ready with an answer that makes sense of it all.
    ‘I did. And now I’ve come back. I did say that I would.’ Stepping aside, he gestures back to the broken remnants of Stephen and Cyril and all their blood.
    ‘My God …’ Ogilvy is a fighting man of many years’ experience, but he grows white now, and cannot find words. A crowd gathers and, gratifyingly, more men than just the Scot are crossing themselves.
    Tod Rustbeard, also known as Tomas, whose mother came from Normandy and who claims his Frenchness more firmly with each passing word, claps the big Scot about the shoulder. ‘You can kiss me later, but for now get your men in here fast, or the English will hear us and more will die who don’t have to.’
    Ogilvy can move swiftly, when things are explained to him. One meaty arm sweeps back at his fellows. ‘Swords up,
mes enfants
. Let’s take these Godless bastards from behind. Tomas, you coming?’
    ‘Aye.’ He has not forgotten Glasdale, not his death, nor the promises made above the water in which he died. Later, he will honour them. Today, here, now, he is Tomas Rustbeard who smiles to the French and to the Scots and nods forward to the ram-pounded gate. ‘Quietly now. Shields up, swords out, and don’t miss when you’re close enough.’
    He helps them with the killing and if some amongst the English side recognize him, it is only with their dying breaths and they are not in a position to do anything about it. The battle of the gate is short and fast and ugly, and of the garrison of five hundred English men at arms the last fifty surrender.
    Tomas doesn’t stop to herd them into the city, but seeks out Patrick Ogilvy. If anyone can get close to the Maid, it’s him: with his red hair and his Scots air of casual brutality, he’s always close to the leadership in any fight. Tomas clasps him, arm to elbow, draws him close, brother-in-arms, at the end of a victorious battle. ‘We won! By God and all the saints, we won!’
    ‘By the Maid.’ Ogilvy can’t stop grinning. He has no idea the effort of will it takes not to cut his throat. ‘By the Maid we won, and will keep on winning. You’re in good hands now, Tomas. The bastard English are learning what it’s like to be on the losing side at last. We’ll push them all the way back to Normandy and beyond. We’ll be in London drinking wine from gold cups by the year’s end, just see if we’re not.’
    He will not be. Here, now, Tomas swears one more binding oath