by Dan Davis
My dear grey courser bolted. As always, my sword was still in my hand.
“Run for the trees,” Jocelyn cried.
It was good advice. If surrounded, choose a place, attack it with all your might and break free of the encirclement. More arrows thumped in. I was exposed, vulnerable. I rolled to my feet and staggered toward the trees after Jocelyn and Anselm.
Without my hauberk, I felt naked. An arrow slashed through a bush next to me and clattered into a coppiced stand of hazel.
There were men there. The robbers had driven us from one side of the road into the arms of their fellows, who came screaming out of the trees with spears and axes.
The pain in my shoulder vanished. Three men converged on me, their faces contorted with the rage of battle, the first thrusting a long spear underarm, up toward my belly. The man on my left was big-boned but thin. He attacked with an old sword that he swung at my head as though he were splitting a log, his yellow teeth bared, spraying spittle into his beard. To my right, a young fellow screamed a wordless, high cry and thrust at my legs with his staff, hoping to trip me or smash a knee.
All my life, I had been either fighting or training to fight. I was always strong, quick, and skilful. Ever since I was first killed in the Holy Land, my physical abilities had been even greater. The men rushing me were full of desperate rage, fully committed to killing. My left arm was numbed and practically useless. I was unarmoured. But bringing death to my enemies was my purpose in life.
I flicked the spearhead aside with my blade and stepped inside the thrust, the point sliding past me and I thrust my sword through his guts, stepping close enough to him to smell his sour breath. I pushed him away off my blade. As I did so, I sliced the leading edge across his body, spilling the thick ropes of his guts out into the leaf litter, leaving a trail of offal as he went reeling away. The stink of blood and hot shit filled the air. The swordsman was following up his missed swing, grunting with the strain of changing direction when his weight was all in the blow itself. I span and ripped my point through his throat. He let go the handle of his sword and clutched his destroyed throat, staring at me as he staggered backward. His mouth was a black hole. Blood sprayed from it and his neck as I turned on the boy with the quarterstaff, who was backing away shouting something in a confused scream. I ran him through the heart and his blood pulsed out as he fell back, dying. He put his hands over his chest as if he could hold in the blood. His face turned white. In the moment before his eyes closed, he knew he was about to die.
Jocelyn and Anselm had been fighting other men. The memory of it, the awareness of their combat nearby while I had been fighting my own battle, came back to me.
Those men they had fought were dead, too, a pair of them lying in a swathe of bright green nettles. Blood spattered the young leaves. Jocelyn and Anselm stood together, breathing heavily. Their swords were bloodied. Neither my knight nor his squire appeared to be injured.
The bowmen on the other side of the road had fled or were hiding, no doubt horrified by the swift deaths of their friends.
“The boy was begging for his life,” Jocelyn said stepping behind me. “When you ran him through.”
“He was?” Dark blood flowed from his chest, soaking his plain tunic.
“Look how young he was. Not more than twelve or thirteen, perhaps.”
The smell of the blood was overwhelming. My mouth watered.
“You are wounded,” Jocelyn said, pointing at the arrow sticking from the top of my arm.
“Cut it out,” I said. “Anselm? Are you well?”
The young squire was staring at the blood on his sword, his eyes wild when they turned to me. “Lord? Yes, lord.” He gulped.
“Did you kill your first man?” I asked him. The two dead men in the nettles where Anselm stood had their heads slashed and bashed in.
“I am not certain,” he said, voice shaking and looking to Jocelyn, who shrugged. I understood. Most men are confused by battle and they say it quickly fades from memory.
“Anselm fought very well,” Jocelyn said. “He kept his head, parried, moved in the proper fashion. Just as we have trained. Yes, he did very well.”
“Well done, lad. We shall discuss every detail later over ale and wine,” I said. “Firstly, you must catch the horses before their fellows take them away. Jocelyn will help you after he removes this arrow.”
Jocelyn took his dagger, sliced away my clothes and held the point against the flesh where it was drawn in, around the broken shaft. “Perhaps we should wait until we can get you to Nottingham. There will be monks there. If you are blessed, perhaps even a barber.”
“Cut it out, you coward,” I said. “Be quick about it.”
Jocelyn licked his lips and hesitated. “The monks-” he started.
“For the love of God,” I cried. “Go. Assist Anselm with the horses. Those bowmen will marshal their courage soon enough.”
Relief flooded his features. “Are you sure you can manage yourself?” he asked. “You will make a mess of your arm.”
“I will heal,” I said, staring the blood still welling from the dead boy’s chest. “When you catch the horses, clear the brush that closed the path. I shall come and find you there.”
Jocelyn followed my eyes. I caught his look of disgust and horror before he turned away and hurried down the road.
I took my dagger and wiped the blade upon my surcoat. My left hand I placed upon a sturdy trunk and twisted my shoulder so I could see the entry place of the arrow. Likely, it would be headed with the barbed broadhead type. I would have to cut away much flesh, slicing down to the bone, in order to free the path that the barbs must take. Without knowing how the arrow was oriented, I did not know where to cut the line. So I started in along the shaft, pushing the point of my dagger against the skin. It depressed a long way before the skin gave way with a sudden, wet pop. The pain speared through me and I was worried because it hurt and yet that was the least of it. I recalled that I had experienced much worse, many times over. Steeling myself, I sawed down, slicing through the flesh. Blood welled out, hot and fragrant. I was thirsty. The pain burned and sweat pricked out all over my body. I glanced around, checking no man was near. The wood was quiet, even starting to fill with birds flying back. Crows cawed overhead, drawn by the scent of fresh death and a pair of pigeons clattered away from them.
Blood had obscured the wound. My water and wine were on the horses so I had to continue by feel alone. I sawed down until the tip of my dagger was tapping against both the bone and the point of the arrowhead. The tip was lodged in the bone itself. I paused while I vomited a little then felt around with the dagger to find the orientation of the barbs. I sawed my way back out, above them. Blood flowed freely and I dropped my dagger twice as my hand was slippery with it. When I felt I had enough flesh cut away, I wiped my hand upon my surcoat, gripped the shaft and pulled. Agony shot through me. It was as though I could feel every bone in my body.
I cursed myself for my weakness, ground my teeth and yanked the thing out with a cry loud enough to terrify even the crows. The blood gushed out while I held on to the tree for a long moment. I knew I was not yet done. I peered closely at the arrowhead. The point had bent, compressed from hitting my bone but otherwise seemed whole. Anything not of your body that remains inside a wound would encourage corruption. I had seen it many times in others. I thrust my fingers inside and felt around. There was a scrap of my linen shirtsleeve inside that I had mistaken for a long blood clot. When I was close to certain, I sat for a moment.
Anselm and Jocelyn would be waiting. Other travellers would be along the road soon. I walked passed the bodies of the three I had killed. Already, the death smell was overwhelming.
The crows had returned and a brave few stood upon the earth, watching me.
The bearded man, so full of fury in life, looked at peace but for his ruined throat. His eyes were still open though one eye was white and the other red. I stepped around the trail of quivering, gelatinous guts joined to the spearman and kn
elt by the boy I had stabbed in the heart. I tried to avoid looking at his face. His blood was drying up and his body growing cold.
I had to hurry. I looked out along the road. No one was around. I slit the boy’s dirty clothes and exposed the wound. He stank but I had to have blood if my arm was to heal. And I needed my arm to kill William.
I dug out a few clots from the wound, sank my lips to it and sucked in the blood. It had been so long since I had tasted it. The blood from inside him was yet warm and that warmth spread through me until it burned with a wondrous heat. Like hot sunlight on a cold day. Like cold water from a spring after a hot day. I drank until my belly was heavy with it and then I drank some more.
A noise. I looked up, my hearing improved by the magic of the blood. A figure moved in the trees on the other side of the road, knew it was spotted and fled, slipping through the wood. The man moved with skill, making barely a rustle or snapping a twig. But the blood allowed me to hear him crashing away like a boar.
I wiped myself down, collected my sword and followed the road.
At the edge of the wood, with our horses, Jocelyn and Anselm waited.
And beside them, his bow at his side, stood Swein.
Chapter Three – The Lady Marian
“The lad looks terrified,” Jocelyn said to me in French as we rode the final miles to Nottingham.
We were well on our guard, dressed for war in mail with our shields slung and helms at hand. The shadows grew long before us along the road. Every few yards there was another blossoming bush in the hedgerow perfuming the evening air. I prayed that no enemy lurked beyond them.
He was speaking of Swein, who had shocked Jocelyn by returning to us after all. Swein walked beside Anselm’s rouncey, a way behind us, with his head lowered and his face unseen inside his hood.
“He saw me,” I said, keeping my eyes on the hedgerows.
I doubted we would be ambushed again. There were people about on the road, heading to Nottingham from the countryside. Most walking, a few driving a cow or a sheep and one with a tired old pony pulling a cart loaded with shit-stinking chicken crates. They all gave us space, taking off their caps and staring at us going about so armed. Knights were one thing. Knights armoured for war meant trouble and the sight of us no doubt made them fear war would follow. My shoulder had fully healed, the blood doing its work in moments. Yet, I would not be caught out again. Let the peasants fear.
“He saw you?” Jocelyn asked. “You do not mean he saw you drinking?”
“At the end, he was in the trees.” I kept my voice low, though I thought Swein would likely not understand French. “I suspect he believed he was well hidden.”
“You saw that it was him?”
“It must have been him,” I said.
Jocelyn shook his head. “If it was, why ever would he have returned?”
I looked at Jocelyn. “You saw me drink, once, when you were a boy. Yet you returned.”
“That is different.” His mouth wrinkled up as if tasting something foul.
“It is,” I allowed. “Well, whatever his reason, he is here now.”
Jocelyn looked over his shoulder. “Have you considered that he led us there? That he disappeared at precisely the right moment? That he was one of the archers? It may have been him that shot you.”
“Of course I considered it,” I said, irritated that he thought me so foolish. “Yet the fletching on the arrows that were shot at us was grey.”
“So?”
“Swein’s are white,” I said.
Jocelyn pursed his lips. “Perhaps he borrowed his friend’s arrows.”
“Perhaps. But if he had been a part of it,” I said, “why did he come back?”
Jocelyn thought for a while. “Could he be William’s man after all?”
I considered it. “Could be.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Jocelyn said.
“I do not know,” I admitted. “Watch my back?”
We arrived with the sun low in the sky and the air growing cool. Nottingham was a thriving place. It was not a market day, nor a holy day nor a Sunday and yet it was busier even than Derby. The castle sat high on a natural sandstone cliff edge on the southwestern corner of town, covering the approach road. The town arced along the northern side of a bend in the wide, meandering River Trent.
While we found rooms, I sent Anselm up to the castle to ask if the sheriff would see me and if so, when I could call upon him. We handed the horses to the grooms at the stable, along with dire warnings should they not be properly cared for.
Swein was nervous, peering out of the stable into the street. “I should not be here.”
“You are unlikely to see the bailiffs, are you not?” I lowered my voice. “Even if they claim to know you, I shall state you have served me for two years. Swein is not the name they know you by, so do not concern yourself. If anyone tries to take you from me I shall bash his bloody skull.”
Swein attempted a smile but his face was white as bleached bone. I was sure he had seen me, he was afraid of me and yet he stood bravely before me. His will was strong, even back then when he was so young.
Anselm returned.
“Sir Richard,” Anselm said. “They told me that the sheriff wants to see you immediately.” Anselm was good enough to speak in English, which we rarely did when alone. He spoke thusly so that Swein would understand what was being said. I resolved to do the same and speak in English whenever my new squire was in hearing.
“The sheriff wants to see me tonight? Not the morning? Very well, you all eat and drink and I shall be back later.”
Jocelyn offered to send Anselm to serve me, as befitted my station or even to come with me himself but I wanted them to rest. I needed them all to be strong for the fight against William.
The castle at Nottingham was a fine, neat place, built atop an imposing sandstone cliff with the River Leen running at the base. Not a huge river and not a large castle but a formidable place to assault none the less.
After waiting at the gate for what seemed to be a long time, I was escorted through the outer gate, the bailey and inner wall into the castle keep and the Great Hall.
The sheriff’s men were drinking at the tables in the gloom. A couple of well-dressed knights sat at the top table. There were no women, other than a couple of servants moving about. It was quiet. The men’s eyes followed me as I was led through.
The sheriff was not there.
He was up a flight of stairs at the end of the hall, sitting at a table in his solar, attended by two clerks and a priest. They were gathered about the table behind stacked rolls of parchment and scratching away at a fresh section when I was introduced.
The sheriff, Roger de Lacy, looked up from his work and stared at me, confused for a moment. He started and lurched to his feet.
“By God,” he said, pushing his clerks aside and coming around the table. “By God, Richard, can that truly be you?” He peered at my face, narrowing his eyes.
I had been expecting a reaction of some kind, because of my complete lack of ageing. I had no way to explain it. How could I say that I had been killed and resurrected by unknown means at the age of twenty-two?
“Roger, I am so pleased to see you again,” I said.
He had greyed and filled out. He was bulky underneath his superbly rich cloth and his belly stretched his tunic tight. His face was deeply lined and his eyes were tired and sagging. But the young man I had known many years ago was still there and he had aged better than most men. Especially one who was never active in the martial sense. Roger de Lacy was an enormously able administrator and a wily politician but he had rarely taken up arms. As a local representative of the king, his position as sheriff had infested him personally with the unpopularity of King John.
“Richard, I do not understand this,” Roger said, stepping slowly toward me, peering at my face. “Do my eyes deceive me? You have not aged a day. How long has it been?”
“I am told that I have retained my yout
hful aspect.”
“Retained your youthful aspect?” Roger grabbed a lamp from his desk and held it close to my face. I blinked at the light. “You still look like a twenty-year-old boy. Ten years ago, I could forgive it but now we are almost fifty. What sorcery is this?”
“What can I say?” I said, pushing the lamp away from my face. “I have been blessed. No doubt the years will catch up with me all of a sudden. Now, tell me, Roger, how do you yourself fare?”
He shook his head, put the lamp down and took my arm. “I am beset on all sides by madmen,” he said, fervently. “And that was why I was as delighted as I was surprised to hear you had come to my gate. Take a stool, come on. Will you take a drink? Of course you will. I have some very fine stuff, the finest. Come, take your seat, take a drink.”
I took both, gladly. The power of the blood was fading.
“Beset by madmen, you said?” I asked, glancing at the young priest, who was not introduced.
A servant came in the small side door, poured for us and retired without a word.
“You come to me dressed for war,” he said, looking me up and down and I was suddenly aware of my stench. “Is there news I must know? Do you have word for me from your lord? I must say, I am astonished Hugh has finally allowed you to leave your lands.”
“The archbishop did not grant me leave,” I said. “I came of my own volition. I have no news of the war, nor knowledge of it. Indeed, I was hoping that you could inform me.”
“I am honoured,” he said, waving his clerks away. The priest lurked but Roger shot him a look and he also backed out. “So you came simply to discuss the war?”
I took a drink. “This wine is wonderful.”
He snorted. “It costs a fortune. How I wish the king had not lost Gascony. I heard you were there?”
“I am sure that you did.”
Roger laughed. “I never believed what they said about you.” He looked at me closely again. “Not until you walked through that door. Is this why the archbishop keeps you locked away? Because of your disgusting eternal youth?”