Knights of the Hawk Read Online Free PDF

somewhere came the forlorn bleating of a goat, although I could not see it. There was no other sound, nor any sign of movement, nor any glint of mail or spearpoints, which suggested the rebels had already left this place. Even so, we approached slowly. In my younger days my recklessness had often been my undoing, but experience had taught me the value of caution. The last thing I wanted was to rush in only to find ourselves in a snare, surrounded and outnumbered and with no hope of retreat. And so the four archers kept arrows nocked to their bowstrings, ready to let fly if they saw anything that looked like a foeman, while the rest of us gripped our lance-hafts firmly.
    The blackened remains of the manor stood upon a low rise. As we climbed, it became clear that we were the only ones around. Anywhere that might have provided a hiding place for the enemy had been razed to the ground. Livestock had been slaughtered in the fields and the pens, while the corpses of men, women and children alike lay in the yards and the vegetable gardens, their clothes and hair congealed with blood. Feathered shafts protruded from the chests and backs of some, while others had gaping wounds to their necks and thighs, and bright gashes across their faces. No one had been spared. The stench of burnt flesh mixed with freshly spilt guts hung in the air: smells at which I might once have retched, but which by now had grown only too familiar. In the past few years I’d witnessed so many burnings of this kind that it was hard to be much moved by them. Still, it was rare that the enemy left so little in their wake.
    ‘They killed even their own kind,’ I murmured, scarcely able to believe it, though it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it happen. Usually the rebels would kill the lord and his retainers, if they happened to be French, but leave the English folk unharmed. Sometimes, though, their desire for blood consumed them, and they wouldn’t stop until all around was ruin and death. Perhaps the villagers had tried to fight back, or else the rebels had judged them guilty of falling subject to a foreign lord. I could only guess the reason.
    Usually, though, there would be at least one person left alive. One to tell the tale. One to spread the news of what had happened here. One to foster fear of those who had done this. I knew because it was what I would have done.
    We halted not far from what I guessed had once been a church, although there seemed to be little to distinguish it from the remains of the other hovels save for a waist-high stone cross that stood at its western end. One wall alone remained standing, but, as we dismounted, that too collapsed inwards, sending a great cloud of dust and still-glowing ash billowing up.
    Beside me, Pons shook his head and muttered something that I could not entirely make out but which was most likely a curse.
    Serlo turned to me. ‘Why do you think they did this, lord?’
    To that question there was no simple answer. Even if the lord of this manor had been a Frenchman, as seemed likely, the people living here would have been kinsfolk of the enemy. And apart from a few sheep and goats and chickens, most of which they seemed to have killed rather than take with them, what could there have been in a place like this to make it worth attacking?
    Only one explanation came to mind. ‘They wanted to send us a message,’ I said.
    ‘A message?’ Serlo echoed, frowning.
    Slowly it was beginning to make sense. The reason why they had come to this place, so far from their encampment upon the Isle.
    ‘The enemy weren’t looking for plunder or captives,’ I said. ‘If they were, they could have chosen to attack any number of manors closer to Elyg.’
    ‘A show of force,’ Pons put in, understanding at last. ‘That’s what they wanted. The more damage they wreak and the more ruthless they appear, the more panic they spread.’
    I nodded. ‘They want to prove that they don’t fear us. That they can strike