Ironhand

by Hilary Green

  IRONHAND

  Hilary Green

  © Hilary Green

  Hilary Green has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE.

  1

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  Historical Note

  PROLOGUE.

  THE CRUSADER STRONGHOLD OF HAB IN THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM

  1119.

  The battle had been long and bitter. Now the desert sands were strewn with the bodies of the dead and wounded and men in black surcoats emblazoned with the cross of St John were moving among them, lifting the wounded onto litters, comforting the dying and placing the bodies of the dead in carts to be taken away for burial. In the middle of the chaos, a knight was leaning on his sword, his head drooping with exhaustion. He had pulled off his helmet and pushed back the mailed coif that protected his neck, to reveal dark hair liberally laced with grey and, beneath a glaze of dried blood and sweat, a face lined and creased with many years exposure to sun and wind.

  A younger man, scarcely out of boyhood, wearing the dark cloak and white cross of a lay brother, approached him, wild eyed with the horror of his first battle.

  'Sir Marc, forgive me. Have you seen Sir Ranulph? I have been searching for him but no one seems to know what has happened to him.'

  The old knight lifted his head and gazed around the battle field. 'I was with him. We fought side by side, as we always do. But then I was unhorsed and I saw him beset on all sides. After that, I lost sight of him.' He raised his voice and shouted, the tone rough as the desert sands with weariness. 'Ranulph! Ranulph!' Then, receiving no reply, 'Has anyone seen Ironhand?'

  In response, knights who had sunk to their knees in prayer or from exhaustion roused themselves and began to look about them, but it seemed no one knew where he might be.

  'Pray God he has not been killed!' The boy's voice shook with the intensity of his anxiety.

  'Not he!' Sir Marc responded. 'He has not survived this long to be struck down now. Come, he may be among the wounded. Let us search.'

  They found him at last, half buried beneath the bodies of two Turks. His sword was still embedded in the chest of one, while the bloody dagger in his left hand showed how he had cut the throat of the other. His eyes were closed and there was no response when Marc bent over him and called his name.

  'Is he dead?' the boy asked.

  Marc bent closer and brought his cheek close to the fallen man's lips. The boy waited in tense silence and at length Marc straightened up. 'He is breathing. Help me pull these two infidels off him. There is so much blood I cannot tell where he is wounded.' He looked around. 'Hey, over here! Bring a litter.'

  Two of the brother infirmarians who were tending the wounded came over and between them they lifted Ranulph onto a litter. It was then that they saw that the hair on the back of his head, once golden but now bleached almost white by sun and the passage of years, was matted with blood.

  'So, that is it' Marc said. 'Neither of them managed to get through his guard, but their weight when they attacked him caused him to fall backwards and crack his head on this rock.'

  'Will he live?' the boy asked.

  'That is in God's hands, but such a wound should not prove fatal.' He turned his eyes to the stretcher bearers. 'Carry him carefully. No one is more precious, in the eyes of God and his friends, than this man.'

  By sunset, the space within the walls of the stronghold was crammed with men. The wounded were laid cheek by jowl on straw mattresses in the great hall, but a quiet corner had been found for this respected elder knight. Marc found him there, when he had washed his face and quenched his thirst, and was surprised to see the young lay brother kneeling beside the bed, his hands clasped in fervent prayer.

  He waited until the boy looked up and then said, 'He shows no sign of regaining consciousness?'

  The boy shook his head and Marc saw that his eyes were red, as if he had been weeping. He found a stool and brought it to the other side of the bed. 'Go to your rest. I will watch over him for the night.'

  'No, I will watch with you, if you will permit it.'

  'Very well, if that is your wish.' He studied the boy's face. 'Many good men have died and been wounded this day. Yet you seem more distressed over this one than all the rest. Why is that?'

  The boy hesitated, dropping his eyes. Then he said, 'I was born and brought up in Antioch. Sir Ranulph was much spoken of there. Some of my family knew him, when he was in the city during the siege. They told me that he was renowned not only for his courage, but for his kindness and generosity. I was not born until after you had all left, but I formed a desire to meet the man who had made such an impression. That is why I came to join your order. I have been with you only a short while, but Sir Ranulph has always been kind to me.'

  'It is his nature,' Marc said. 'I was with him in Antioch, and before that on the long march from Constantinople, and I believe I should have died long ago but for his care and wisdom.'

  The boy leaned forward eagerly. 'You know him well, but I know nothing of his life before he came to Antioch. One thing puzzles me. Most of the knights of the order belong to great families with lands in France or Spain or Italy. Their names bear witness to their origins. Yet I have never heard Sir Ranulph called by any other name than Ironhand. Why is that?'

  Marc nodded. 'It is true. He boasts no illustrious patronymic and has left neither land nor family in Europe. Yet his blood is noble. It is the blood of the old Anglo Saxon lords, who ruled England before William of Normandy conquered the country. His father was thane of Erbistock, a place somewhere, I believe, in the northern reaches of that country. His parents were killed by William's men, when he sent them north to put down a rebellion. The story of how he rose from a penniless orphan to be, first, such a redoubtable warrior that he earned the name of Ironhand, and then a merchant so wealthy that men began to say that, rather than main de fer he should be dubbed main d'or, golden hand; and then how he was reduced to the most abject state of humanity, and rose again to be a knight worthy of inclusion in the inner councils of Prince Bohemond of Taranto, is such a one as might be told by a bard to beguile a long winter's night.'

  The boy clasped his hands. 'Will you tell it to me?'

  Marc looked at him. He was bone weary, but yet he had promised to watch beside his friend. 'Well, it seems we have a long night ahead of us. I am no bard. But pour us both a cup of that spiced wine and I will tell you what I can.'

  The boy poured wine from a flask that stood nearby on a low table and brought it to him. Marc pushed his stool back so that he could lean against the wall and swallowed a long draught. 'You understand that I did not meet him until much of what I shall tell you was in the past, but I believe that over the years I have gleaned much of his story.' He sipped again and cleared his throat.'This, then, is the tale of Ranulph of Erbistock, whom men call Ironhand......'

  1

  Erbistock, near Chester. 1070

  The small boy clung to his mother's skirts. He could feel her trembling. It was not something he had ever felt before and it filled him with terror. If it were not for that, the shouts and yells that came from the other side of the great oak door at the far end of the hall would not have seemed so frightening. He could hear the c
lash of metal and a roaring, crackling noise that he could not identify. Then he heard his father's voice, louder and more furious than he had ever heard it before.

  'Come on, you bastards! We're ready for you! Stand fast, men! Don't let them ….' The words ended with a gurgling cry, as if something had grabbed his father's throat, and the child felt his mother start forward and heard her choke back a scream.

  There was a crash as something struck the door and then a splintering noise, and he saw the blade of an axe caught in the broken planks. Suddenly his mother bent and grabbed him, lifting him off his feet and carrying him up onto the raised dais at the end of the hall. There was an opening in the wall at the back, to let in light and air. The boy felt himself swung over the sill, his feet dangling an arm's length above the ground below.

  'Ranulph!' his mother said hoarsely. 'Do you remember the hollow tree where you hid, when we were playing?' He wriggled in her grasp, trying to climb back to the safety of the hall. She gripped him hard. 'I am going to let go of you. It isn't far to fall. You won't hurt yourself. Then you must run as fast as you can to the hollow tree and hide there until I come and find you. Do you understand?'

  'No!' he screamed. 'No! I don't want to!'

  'You must! You have to be a brave boy, to make your father proud. Go! Go, my darling!'

  Her hands released him and his legs buckled under him as he hit the ground. He scrambled up, tears running down his face, and held out his arms to her.

  'Run, Ranulph!' she called. 'Run, fast, fast!'

  Then someone dragged her back out of his sight and he turned and ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, towards the woodland that fringed the village. He could hear the shouts and screams behind him and smell burning, but he did not look back. He reached the trees and struggled on, his legs scratched by brambles that lay across the path, until he reached the small clearing where the great oak stood. He squeezed into the space at the base of its trunk and crouched there, panting and sobbing. The noises from the village grew less until he could hear nothing but the roar of the flames as the thatch on the roofs burned. After a while he stopped crying. It was autumn, the first chilly days of the year, and he began to shiver. He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them and waited for his mother to find him.

  2.

  Chester. 1078

  'Master, a word … please!'

  Osric turned impatiently to find out who was pulling his sleeve. A scrawny youth, with the gangling limbs of one no longer a child but not yet grown into manhood.

  'Take your hands off me!'

  'Please, master! Give me a moment.'

  The boy was thin, pale faced like one who has spent too much time indoors. He was poorly dressed in a grubby tunic and there were holes in his hose, but the voice did not have the accent of a peasant. His hair was cut monkishly short, but its colour was pure gold and the eyes that pleaded with him were as blue as the summer sea.

  'Well? What do you want?'

  'Work, master.'

  'Work? With me? On my ship?'

  'Yes, master. I'll do any job you set me to.'

  'With muscles like yours? You'd be no use to me, boy. Get out of my way.'

  The boy did not move. 'I'm stronger than I look. And I can read and write, and I'm good at figures.'

  'What's that to me?'

  'You are a trader, aren't you? You must have records to deal with … lists, prices, money paid out and taken in.' A brief hesitation. Then, 'I watched you just now in the tavern. You were trying to reconcile your figures. It … it seemed to take a long time.'

  'Ha!' Osric glared at him. ''Spying on me were you?'

  'No. I was helping out as a pot boy. The landlord promised me a meal in return.. I couldn't help noticing you.' The boy's expression became more intense than ever. 'I could save you time, and trouble, if you take me on.'

  Osric gazed at him, frowning. It was true that he had just spent a frustrating hour over the record keeping resulting from his last voyage. A waste of good drinking time! Not that it had stopped him drinking. He recognised hazily that he might have made sense of the figures more easily if he had not drunk quite so much ale. But there was something funny going on here.

  'Who taught you to read and write?'

  'The monks at St Werburgh's. I was … I grew up there.'

  'What's your name?'

  'Ranulph, master.'

  'Who's your father?'

  'Athelstan. He was … he was killed by King William's men, when they came north to put down the rebellion.'

  Osric spat. 'The Bastard's men, eh? God rot them all.'

  The boy looked back at him, his gaze inscrutable.

  'So you grew up in the monastery. So now, why are you so keen to go to sea? Who are you running away from?'

  'No one! But I've no home and no job.'

  'So why not stay where you were?'

  'I didn't want to be a monk.'

  'Ah.' Osric nodded. 'That makes sense.' He hesitated. The boy had no father, belonged to no overlord. The monks were not likely to chase after him. And there was that golden hair, those blue eyes … it was tempting, very tempting …

  'Ever been to sea?'

  'No, master.'

  'It's not easy. You have to expect a hard life. And you have to do as you're told. If I take you on, you'll be under my orders. You will follow them without question, and if you don't …' He left the threat unsaid.

  The boy nodded. 'I understand.'

  Osric smiled, but it was not a smile of welcome. 'Right. Come with me. We sail with the tide.'

  Ranulph shivered and bent closer over the tablet on his knee. In the feeble light of the oil lamp the columns of figures wavered and bile rose in his throat. He thought that he had emptied his guts into the sea on the voyage to Dublin, and that when they docked the nausea would subside. But even tied up to the quayside, the Seagull rocked. She was a cog, flat bottomed to make room for cargo, but in a heavy sea she wallowed and bucked like a creature possessed. He longed to feel dry land under his feet, but Osric had ordered him to stay on board to watch over the cargo of salt and check the bill of lading to make sure there were no errors. He had thrust a pewter dish of salt pork and dry bread in front of him and then he and the rest of the crew had gone off to the tavern. Ranulph had eaten some of it, and now he wished he had not.

  The very thought of the food brought on a new wave of nausea. He stumbled to his feet, but he was too late. A great gout of half digested pork spewed out of his mouth onto the wax tablet, obliterating the writing. He was frantically trying to mop it off with the hem of his tunic when the ship rocked violently and he heard boots on the afterdeck under which he was crouched. A moment later, Osric was upon him, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.

  'You filthy dog! What have you done? I brought you on board to save me time and now look! Important records ruined. What have you got to say for yourself?'

  'I'm sorry, master! I'll clean it up somehow. I couldn't help myself …'

  'Sorry is not good enough! You have to pay for what you've done. You have to be punished! Come here!'

  Ranulph found himself thrust face down across one of the thwarts. His braies were ripped down and from somewhere Osric produced a switch of hazel and laid into him. He was no stranger to punishment. The novice master who had overseen his education had been a strong believer in the adage that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. It was one reason why he had run away. It was what followed that left him convulsed and sobbing on the deck. Something so humiliating, so agonising and so far beyond anything he could have imagined that his brain refused to take it in.

  When it was over, Osric stood over him and laughed coarsely. 'New to you, was it, little monastery boy? I thought you'd be used to it, living with the monks and looking like you do. Well, you can get used to it now. You wanted to ship with me. Now you have to take the consequences.'

  Above him, Ranulph heard a chorus of jeering laughter. The awful deed had been witnessed by the r
est of the crew.

  'See he stays on board,' Osric ordered. 'I don't want him running off. I haven't finished with him yet.'

  The men climbed aboard, laughing and joking amongst themselves. They were all drunk and none of them took any notice of Ranulph. He dragged himself back into the small space under the afterdeck and curled up with his knees to his chin. The men settled on the thwarts and wrapped themselves in their cloaks and soon began to snore. For a long time Ranulph huddled where he was, afraid to move. Then one thought formed itself out of the confusion in his head. He must get away! He raised his head and wriggled to a position where he could see along the length of the ship. It was no good. One of the crew was standing watch, his face turned in Ranulph's direction. There was no chance of leaving the ship without being seen. He cowered back, biting his lips to hold back the sobs that shook him, and closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his lids he tried to pray, but no words came,and in the end he drifted into a state somewhere between trance and sleep.

  Soon after dawn Osric came back and started kicking the men awake and shouting orders. The day was spent unloading the cargo and Ranulph was ordered to help. His whole body ached and he felt dizzy from lack of food, but there was no mercy. He lugged sacks of salt over the side until he could hardly stand from weariness. Then, as darkness fell, the men set off for the tavern.

  'Oh no! Not you!' Osric stood over him. 'We're going to have some fun!'

  He had been drinking all day and was unsteady on his feet. He swayed as he pulled Ranulph towards him. Ranulph smelt his foul breath and his sweat and wanted to gag. In desperation, he kicked out and caught Osric on the shin and as he staggered and swore his grip loosened and Ranulph pulled free. Osric lunged at him and Ranulph butted him in the stomach. He fell back, knocking the lantern to the deck, and his head struck the keel post with an audible crack. Ranulph climbed up onto the quayside and turned to run, his one thought to put as much distance as he could between them before his tormentor recovered. His foot caught in the rope mooring the stern of the boat to the quay and he almost fell on his face, but as he recovered his balance an idea came to him. He looked back. Osric was still lying where he had fallen, with no sign of movement. With fingers that shook from a mixture of cold and fear, he undid the knots holding the rope to the bollard. The Seagull's stern began to swing out into the current. His heart thudding, he ran to the bows and struggled to untie the remaining rope. With the ship already tugging at its mooring, these knots were harder to undo and he was terrified that at any moment Osric would erupt from where he lay under the stern deck, or one of the crew would come out of the tavern and see him. Then the rope came loose and the Seagull glided away from the quay and out towards the middle of the river. She rotated slowly, then, yielding to the combined pull of tide and current, she headed faster and faster for the open sea. Ranulph stood, breathing hard, and as he gazed he saw a small rosy light blossom in the ship's stern. For a moment he thought that Osric had come to and was attempting to signal to the shore, but the light grew and brightened and he suddenly understood what had happened. The oil lamp, which had been knocked over in the struggle, had set fire to some of the debris lying on deck. Ranulph looked around him. Should he run to the tavern and call out the crew? If he did, he would almost certainly be recaptured and he shuddered to think what his punishment might be. Then the thought struck him. 'Last night you prayed that Osric might burn in hell for what he did to you. So, now your prayer has been answered sooner than you expected.' He turned and ran as fast as his shaking legs would carry him away from the lights of the town.