A Bone of Contention

PROLOGUE

Cambridge, 1327

Breath coming in painful gasps, D’Ambrey ran even harder. His lungs felt as though they would explode, and his legs burned with the agony of running. He reached an oak tree, and clutched at its thick trunk as he fought to catch his breath. A yell, not too far away, indicated that the soldiers had found his trail, and were chasing him once again. Weariness gave way to panic, and he forced himself to move on.

But how long could he continue to run before he dropped? And where could he go? He pushed such questions from his mind, and plunged on into the growing shadows of dusk. His cloak caught on a branch, and, for a few terrifying seconds, he could not untangle it. But the cloak tore, and he continued his mindless running.

He burst out from the line of trees and came on to the High Street, skidding to a halt. At sunset the road was busy with people returning home after a day of trading in the Market Square. People stopped as they saw him. His green cloak with the gold crusader’s cross emblazoned on the back was distinctive, and everyone knew him.

He elbowed his way through them towards the town gate, but saw soldiers there. He could not go back the way he had come, so the only option was to make his way along the raised banks of the King’s Ditch. The King’s Ditch was part fortification and part sewer. It swung in a great arc around the eastern side of the town, a foul, slow-moving strip of water, crammed with the town’s waste and a thick, sucking mud washed from the Fens. There had been heavy rains with the onset of autumn, and the Ditch was a swirling torrent of brown water that lapped dangerously close to its levied banks.

D’Ambrey scrambled up the bank, mud clinging to his hands and knees and spoiling his fine cloak. He saw the soldiers break through the trees on to the road, pushing through the people towards him, and turned to race away from them along the top of the bank. But it was slippery, and moving quickly was difficult. The soldiers spotted him, and were coming across the strip of grass below, beginning to overtake him.

It was hopeless. He stopped running, and stood still.

His cloak billowed around him in the evening breeze, blowing his copper-coloured hair around his face. The soldiers, grinning now that their quarry was run to a halt, began to climb up the bank towards him. Knowing he was going to die, he drew his short dagger in a final, desperate attempt to protect himself.

He heard a singing noise, and something hit him hard in the throat. He dropped the dagger and raised his hands to his neck. He felt no pain, but could not breathe. His fingers grasped at the arrow shaft that was lodged at the base of his throat. The world began to darken, and he felt himself begin to fall backwards. The last thing he knew was the cold waters of the Ditch closing over him as he died.