The Last Crusaders: The Great Siege by William Napier

you?’
    That was a sharp question. Like father, like son.
    Nicholas kept them wriggling, like playing two trout at once.
    ‘I am the only son of your brother knight, Sir Francis Ingoldsby. Is that how you requite him?’
    Damn the boy.
    Stanley looked at Smith. ‘We have truly failed on this journey of ours into England.’
    Smith grunted agreement. ‘Which we were supposed to conduct with as little hubbub as possible.’
    To Nicholas, Stanley resumed, ‘We will find you some better protection before we go. Some position in an old Catholic household, perhaps? One of my own, in Derbyshire—’
    The boy’s voice rose in anger now and Hodge stirred.
    ‘In the bitter winter I protected my sisters, I found them shelter. We have wandered the length and breadth of the shire, Hodge and I, under snow for a blanket. We have slept in barns and pigsties and bartons not fit for beasts. Yet I am no Prodigal Son, with father to run home to.’
    ‘You have proved yourselves tough and cunning, I grant you.’
    ‘We had no choice in the matter. Neither I nor Hodge have father nor mother nor inheritance. If you will not go with me to Malta, yet I will find my way, through every hardship. It is my fate. You came to our house, and my father died. Yet it was me you came for, though you did not know it.’
    The fire crackled in the still night. A fox barked. The boy spoke with conviction and a sublime simplicity.
    At last Stanley stirred. ‘I do not agree with your interpretation, boy. But—’
    Smith said brusquely, ‘Have you shot a fowling piece?’
    ‘Of course. And I can bring down a woodcock.’
    ‘How is your swordsmanship?’
    ‘Not so much. But I will learn.’
    ‘It takes years.’
    ‘Well then, I will learn in a month. The Turk is coming soon.’
    Now Smith and Stanley exchanged a different smile. The boy was unstoppable. The son of Sir Francis Ingoldsby, Knight Grand Cross.
    ‘ Malta? ’ said Hodge. ‘Where in the back-of-beyond the Forest of Clun is Malta?’ He looked around, all three faces smiling now. ‘You mean we’re going to Wales ?’
    The moon was high when they rode out of the glade onto the frosty road, the night cold and clear. The sound of their hooves would carry, dogs would bark as they passed by.
    ‘We need to move fast,’ said Stanley. ‘The whole country will be looking for two men and two boys on stolen plough horses.’
    ‘Two boys?’ pondered Smith. ‘What day is today?’
    ‘Near Lady Day. The twentieth in March, I think.’
    ‘’Tis a Monday. Washday.’ He turned in his saddle. ‘You are shivering, lads. But we will find you new garments, if some addled housewife has left her linens on a hedgerow overnight.’
    Within a few miles they saw such linens cast over a holly hedge, gleaming in the moonlight. Smith made his choice, and hung a small purse of silver pennies from the gatepost in payment.
    He tossed the clothes to the boys. They were stiff with frost.
    Nicholas and Hodge stared down. Kirtle, pinafore and white lace-fringed mob cap for each.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Smith. ‘You’re going to Bristol as girls, never mind what Saint Paul says against men dressing up as maids.’
    ‘And your names shall be …’
    ‘Nancy,’ suggested Smith.
    ‘And Matilda,’ said Stanley.
    For some reason, this was so amusing that the two knights had to stifle their laughter on their sleeves.
    ‘We also need a whore,’ said Smith at last.
    The boys looked startled.
    Smith grinned and offered no explanation.
    It was a party of five who arrived unmolested at Bristol docks a week after. Mr Edward Melcombe, man of law; his brother Simon. His wife, a somewhat raddled-looking older woman called Margaret, whom he had picked up only recently in a dubious alley in Ludlow. And their two daughters, Nancy and Matilda, regrettably ill-favoured maids, both being of strapping build and with a distinct foreshadowing of beard about the jawline.

9
     
    In Bristol the boys lay overnight in the door of