A couple of them drew their own weapons; the others simply laughed.
‘Don’t be stupid, boy,’ the fishmonger snarled from the other side of his stall. ‘You can’t fight us.’
Behind him the girl was getting to her feet, rubbing her wrist and elbow, and there were tears in her eyes.
‘Put your blade away and you won’t get hurt,’ said Gerbod. He came around the table where the fish lay in their neat rows, and strode towards me, gutting-knife still in hand.
I glanced about, facing each one of those who were surrounding me and starting to wonder whether this had been such a good idea. With every beat of my heart my confidence and resolve began to ebb away, until, almost without willing it, I found my weapon-hand returning to the sheath at my belt and sliding the steel back into the leather.
Gerbod grinned, displaying a row of broken, yellow teeth. He took another step closer to me so that his ale-reeking breath filled my nose, then, after eyeing me carefully, he laid both his hands upon my shoulders and shoved me. I wasn’t expecting it and stumbled backwards, into the path of one of the fishmonger’s friends, who tried to send me back the way I had come. My feet couldn’t keep up with the rest of me, however, and suddenly I found myself sprawling forward, limbs flailing, landing on my side in a puddle to the laughs and jeers of the men. Before I could even think of getting up, something connected sharply with my ribs, and I yelped.
‘That’s for threatening me,’ I heard the fishmonger say. He kicked me again, closer to my groin this time. ‘No one crosses me and walks away freely.’
Wincing in double agony, I clutched at my chest as he bent down beside me and in one swift move cut through the leather thong that tied the coin-purse with which Lord Robert had entrusted me to my belt.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. He hefted the pouch in his hand, feeling its weight and listening to the clink of silver inside, before opening the drawstring. His eyes gleamed as he upended the contents into his palm, letting a stream of coins pour forth.
‘He must have stolen it,’ said one of his companions, a thickset man with lank hair and a large wart on the tip of his nose. ‘I reckon he was looking to rob you too, until you caught him.’
‘Rob me of my Joscelina, indeed,’ Gerbod murmured. He tipped the silver back into the purse and glanced down at me. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Do you know how they punish your sort here?’
‘I’m no thief,’ I said. ‘That silver belongs to my lord, Robert de Commines.’
But the fishmonger did not want to listen to my protests. He landed another kick to my gut before, at his signal, the lank-haired man stepped forward and dragged me to my feet. I might, I suppose, have shouted out for help, but it seemed the cowardly thing to do, and in any case how many of the market-goers would want to involve themselves in something that was none of their business? Far better, in their eyes, to let things take their course than to risk injury and perhaps worse. And so it was then. Dazed and blinking to keep the tears of pain from my eyes, I glanced around, trying desperately to meet the eye of anyone, man or woman, who might come to my aid, but they all kept their heads bowed low as they hustled past. The pipe and tabor still played; elsewhere merchants continued to call out the prices of their wares. To them it was just another day, another street brawl.
Eventually my gaze settled once more on Gerbod, who stood in front of me. In his left hand he clutched the purse that contained his spoils, while in the other he held the curved knife, and it was with that one that he grabbed my collar.
‘This silver is mine now,’ he said, and spat in my face.
My arms were pinned behind me, and I could not lift them to wipe away his spit, let alone reach for my knife-hilt, for all the good that would do me. The breath caught in my chest as I glimpsed the glinting edge of his blade, mere inches from my neck. One slip of his hand was all it would take.
‘It belongs to Lord Robert,’ I said in a small voice. It was useless to argue, even if it was the truth. But the truth was all I had to offer, and no other ideas came to mind.
‘Suppose that it did,’ the fishmonger said as he clutched tighter at my collar, ‘tell me this: where is he now to claim it?’
‘Closer than you think,’ came a voice from somewhere behind me, and a wave of relief broke over me, for it was a voice I knew well. A look of surprise came over Gerbod’s face, which quickly changed to a frown as he let go of me and faced the newcomer. A shiver came over me and I breathed deeply as the knife left my throat. I tried to turn but the lank-haired one still held me. Even when I twisted my neck to look over my shoulder, all I could see was a shadowy, indistinct figure, for the sun was in my eyes.
‘This isn’t your concern, friend,’ said the fishmonger.
The figure shouldered his way through the ring of men around me, his mail chinking. With every step the shadow resolved, until I could make out familiar features: his well-trimmed beard, of which he had always been proud; and his thick eyebrows, which lent him a stern appearance. He was then a little less than thirty in years, and while he was neither especially tall nor imposing in stature, he nonetheless had a manner and a way of speaking that always seemed to command respect, not just from those in his employ but from others too. Silver rings adorned both his hands; he was clad in a newly polished hauberk that glistened in the light, while hanging from his belt was a scabbard decorated with enamelled copper and gemstones of many hues.
‘I rather think it is my concern,’ he answered. ‘My name is Robert de Commines. The boy is one of my retainers.’
He did not meet my eyes as he said this. Instead he fixed his gaze upon Gerbod, who could only give a snort in reply, for the first time seemingly unable to think of anything to say.
‘Let him go,’ Lord Robert said. ‘The rest of you, sheathe your weapons. If any of you should so much as lay a scratch upon him, you will have my blade-edge to answer to.’
He rested a hand upon his silver-worked hilt as if in warning. The other men exchanged nervous glances with each other. They remained six against our two, and probably had a good chance of overwhelming us if it came to blows, the fact that one of us was armed with mail and sword notwithstanding. Yet running through their minds at the same time would have been the knowledge that to begin a fight in this place would not go unpunished. If they drew blood they would be hunted down and forced to pay the fine, and if they could not pay the price required by law, they would be outlawed at best and hanged at worst. None of them wished such a fate.
None of them, it seemed, except for Gerbod.
‘Why should I listen to you?’ he asked as he advanced upon Robert until there was barely an arm’s length between them. It was an impertinent question to ask one of such obvious wealth and status, but ale dulls a man’s wits even as it quickens his temper, and a great deal of it must have passed the fishmonger’s lips that day. He jabbed the finger of his left hand – the one holding the coin-pouch – towards the other man’s mailed chest, but Robert was too quick for him, and snatched hold of his wrist.
‘Touch me and it will be the last move you make,’ he warned, lowering his voice as he tightened his grip and met the large-bellied one’s stare. ‘Now, return the money and tell your friend to unhand the boy.’
What possessed the fishmonger that day, I will never know. Perhaps the sight of so much silver had blinded him, or else he was simply used to getting his way and did not much care for being challenged. I have come across many of his kind over the years, and always it has ended badly.
Without warning he stepped forward and in the same sharp movement brought his head down upon Robert’s brow, sending him staggering backwards. While my lord tried to regain his footing Gerbod came at him with his knife, but his slashes found only air.
‘Lord!’ I yelled as I struggled to free myself from the grip of the one who held me, though it seemed he lacked the same appetite for a fight as his friend the fishmonger, since he made little effort to stop me. Nor did the rest of those who had gathered, who w
ere turning tail. They sensed that no good would come of this and wanted no part of any bloodshed.
‘Stay back,’ Robert shouted when he saw me running to his aid with naked steel in hand. He ducked beneath a wild swing aimed at his head, but couldn’t avoid Gerbod’s shoulder-charge, and was knocked to the ground. He lay on his back, blinking as he pressed at the spot on his forehead where he had been struck, whilst the fishmonger stood over him, eyes gleaming.
Roaring without words, I hurled myself at Gerbod. My blood was up and I was blinded by hatred and a wild feeling I’d never before known: a feeling that in the months and years to come would grow ever more familiar; a feeling to which men at different times have given different names and which I would come to know as the battle-rage.
Gerbod heard me coming. With surprising deftness for a man of his girth he stepped out of my path and that of my knife-edge. Smirking, he raised his curved steel to bring to bear upon me. I froze, not knowing what to do. My feet seemed to take root where I’d planted them, and in that moment my rage turned to fear; in the gleam of his weapon I glimpsed my death. I could not tear my eyes from it, could not move or think, and I was still watching it when from behind him came the sound of a sword being drawn, followed an instant later by a flash of steel as the flat of Robert’s blade connected with the back of the fishmonger’s head.
He gave a grunt and staggered towards me, and I had just enough wit remaining to thrust out my blade to defend myself. He tumbled forwards, collapsing on top of me like a block of marble fallen from the back of a stonemason’s cart, bringing us both down. The street was muddy and there was cattle and horse dung everywhere, but even so I met it hard, and my head must have hit a stone, since for a few moments everything went hazy and I did not know where I was. Someone was calling my name, but it seemed far away. A great weight pressed down on my lower half, pinning me to the ground so that I could not move, and the only thing running through my mind was the question of where my knife was, the one that Lord Robert had gifted to me, for it was no longer in my hand.
My hand, which was covered in something warm and sticky and glistening. That was when I came to properly and saw the fishmonger lying there, his arms splayed out, his head laid upon my chest, his mouth wide, his eyes open but unseeing. The stench of shit mixed with fresh-spilt blood filled my nose and I wanted to retch, but nothing would come. All around us people were shouting and pointing and running and screaming, but I could not speak or move or do anything at all. Then Robert was beside me, rolling the fishmonger’s corpse off me, and holding out his hand to help me up. His face was red from exertion and there was a panicked look in his eyes as he looked about.
Only when I was on my feet did I see the steel buried in Gerbod’s chest close to where his heart was. It took but a moment for me to recognise the blade’s hilt and see that it belonged to me, and to understand what had happened. The breath left my chest and a chill ran through me.
‘Run,’ Robert shouted, and then when I did not move, he laid a firm hand upon my shoulder. ‘Now!’
But I would not leave without my weapon. I scrambled to retrieve it, closing my eyes and trying to keep the sickness from rising in my throat as I jerked it from the wound, feeling the flesh tear and the edge scrape against bone. Without pausing to clean the blood from it, I returned it to its sheath, and then I was on my feet again, only to meet Joscelina’s gaze. I’d all but forgotten her. Desperately she screamed for help, though of course there was nothing that could be done. Her voice and her eyes were filled with anguish the likes of which I’d never before seen or heard, though I have known it many times since.
I had taken her uncle from her: the man who was her keeper and her sole protector in the world. With my own hand I had done this. His blood was upon me.
Once more Robert called my name. That was when I noticed the coin-pouch lying just beyond the reach of Gerbod’s outstretched fingers, as if even in death he clutched at it.
‘What about the silver?’ I asked Robert.
‘Leave it!’ he said. ‘It belongs to her now. Now, run!’
But Joscelina had no interest in the money. Even as I stood there, she rushed to her uncle’s side, kneeling down beside him and hugging his bloodstained chest tightly to her own, her cheeks streaming with tears. Swallowing to hold down the bile rising in my throat, I tore my gaze away and broke into a run as I followed Robert through the gathered crowds, fleeing that place of ill fortune. No one dared try to stop us.
We left the town that same hour, riding hard along the tracks towards the woods to the south to escape any of Gerbod’s friends who might pursue us and try to bring us to justice or take their revenge. That it had been an accident, that it had been he who attacked us and that we were only defending ourselves would count for nothing in the eyes of those who passed judgment. Although in years to come Robert’s star would rise and mine with it, at that time he was still far from rich, and possessed little influence that he could use to sway them. Thus we had no choice but to flee the town. I remember glancing back and watching the houses and the walls disappearing behind us and coming to the realisation even then that, for me, nothing thereafter would be the same.
And that was how it happened. It is strange how the names and faces return so easily to me, when many of the companions and sword-brothers with whom I once shared bread and fought shoulder to shoulder in battle have long since slipped my mind. Strange, too, how vivid it all remains in my memory, although it was but a minor street scuffle rather than a glorious battle, and over in moments besides. Still, it marked a turning point in my life, for that was the day I became a killer and my journey began. Men who previously had looked down on me as stable-hand and cup-bearer and serving-lad started to see me differently and to hold me in greater regard, as if I were a new person altogether. What Robert told them and what they believed took place that day, I never learnt. Certainly I never said anything to them, nor did they ever question me regarding the truth of the matter, and that was probably for the best.
The boy had proven himself a warrior, and in so doing had taken his first steps upon the sword-path; that was all that counted. Of course his lord was hoping that he would grow into a good enough warrior that that kill would become merely the first of many, and so it proved in the years that followed. But the truth is and always has been that no matter how great a man’s prowess with spear and sword and shield, or how much silver and gold he may acquire, or how many fine horses he owns, or whether by his deeds he forges himself a reputation to last until the day of judgement, still that first time he took a life will be the one he remembers most clearly.
I should know, for I have walked that path. My name is Tancred, and this is my tale.
One
THE SMOKE ON the horizon was the first sign that the enemy were nearby. It billowed in great plumes above the fields, spreading like an ink-stain upon the fresh parchment of the sky. Save for the occasional bleating of sheep in the pastures and the warbling of skylarks hovering high above, there was no sound. A thin drizzle fell, the wind had died to almost nothing and everything else was still, which made the sight of those plumes in the distance all the more unnerving.
Straightaway I reined in my destrier, Fyrheard, and raised my hand to those following as a signal to halt. My men, riding to either side of me, responded at once, as did the mounted archers at the rear of our column, but the oxen-drivers were too busy talking between themselves to notice, and only my shout of warning stopped them and their animals from colliding with us. I cast a glare in their direction and berated them in the English tongue, but they didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly their minds were on the distant smoke, at which they were pointing and shouting in alarm.
‘A hall-burning, do you think, lord?’ Serlo asked. One of my two household knights, he was a bear of a man with a fearsome sword-arm and a temper to match: not the kind of man that I would have liked to face in a fight, and I was glad to count him as a friend.
‘If it is, it wouldn’t be t
he first,’ I replied. Nor, I suspected, was it likely to be the last. In the last fortnight the rebels had made half a dozen such raids, always in different places but always following the same pattern: striking as if from nowhere to lay the torch to a village or manor, before just as quickly withdrawing to their boats and melting away into the marshes. By the time word of what had taken place had reached us and the king had sent out men to meet them in battle, they were already long gone. Still, it was rare that they should strike so far from their island stronghold. The castle at Cantebrigia was barely two hours behind us; the rebels were either growing bolder or else more foolhardy, and I couldn’t make up my mind which.
‘What now?’ Pons asked, his voice low. The second of my knights, he possessed a sharp wit and an equally sharp tongue, which he often struggled to restrain, but there was nothing light-hearted about his manner now.
‘We could try to find another way around,’ Serlo suggested.
‘Not if we want to reach the king’s camp by dusk,’ I said. Aside from the main tracks, I wasn’t at all familiar with this land: a flat and featureless expanse of pasture and barley fields, crossed by streams and rivers narrow and wide. What I did know was that there were few well-made ways along which fully laden carts could travel, with bridges and fords that they could cross. We could easily waste several hours if we decided to leave the road and strike out across the country.
Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk Page 2