Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  Talon could only really see the huge head from where he was. Most of the dark, hairy body was still hidden in the thick bushes it had emerged from. He was stunned by its size and ugliness. He saw only too clearly the huge tusks protruding from its lower jaws and the long, long snout that rose sharply into the massive head. He could barely see the two small, reddened eyes set wide apart in the black forehead. The hairs on the back of his neck felt as though they’d raised and he had a cold feeling of dread. This was a monster. Talon felt a trickle of fear as he stared at the huge creature.

  The beast was clearly enraged at being disturbed and was glaring shortsightedly at the man directly to its front. It shook its head, tossing streams of saliva from side to side, then suddenly, without any warning, charged.

  The man screamed and tried to run, but it seemed the pain in his arm slowed him down and he was dizzy from the shock so he stumbled and fell again.

  His mouth dry and his heart pumping wildly, Talon started fast toward the man, his javelin held in both hands, hoping with some desperate kind of luck to strike the boar in the side as it came at him. He had barely covered two paces when an arrow whispered by him and struck the boar in the side with an audible thump. One of the quick-thinking Welshmen had loosed an arrow if only to distract the animal from its intended victim.

  It certainly did that, but not as had been hoped. The arrow struck well behind the beast’s heart and while it might become a mortal wound it did nothing to arrest the speed of the charging animal. The boar gave an agonized squeal and spun on its four short legs. It sprayed dead leaves and dirt into the air with its hooves as it spun around.

  Then it charged directly at Talon, who stopped dead in his tracks and sized up the situation. He had no time; the animal was almost on him. He could see the malevolent look in its red eyes, and he watched the huge tusks lower until they seemed to be almost waist high. Talon decided to try to dodge the charging animal and pierce it with the javelin as it went by. This proved harder to do as the huge creature was moving very fast. Then it was almost on him and he stepped quickly aside, but quick as he had been, the animal was quicker. Talon had to throw himself out of the way as the head came up and the tusk grazed his thigh, tearing easily through the fabric of his trews. He felt the sting of a cut, then he caught the rank smell and even felt the stiff hairs on its side brush him as it hurled past.

  Talon rolled and leapt to his feet, knowing that if he tarried he would be ripped to pieces. The trees nearby looked very appealing suddenly, but he knew with a certainty that should he climb one the boar would turn on the wounded man and kill him.

  Squealing with rage and pain from the arrow embedded in its side, the boar spun completely around within a few yards of where Talon was. Another arrow struck the ground behind it and another went over its body. The animal was incredibly fast. The bowmen could not hit it and now, as it charged Talon again, they could not shoot or they risked hitting him. Talon braced himself for another encounter; he was afraid. He had never had to deal with an animal like this before. This beast was monstrous and incredibly fast.

  They were now right in the middle of the dip where the man had fallen. He had dragged himself off to the side and rested against the roots of a tree, watching the battle unfold.

  Once again the animal dipped its huge head, snorted loudly, then charged. Talon hefted the javelin and this time very quickly leaned aside then threw the heavy weapon as hard as he could at the racing animal’s shoulder. His aim was true. Although the boar changed direction and came directly at him, the spear was embedded deep in the animal. It staggered, but still came on. Once again Talon had to leap out of the way. This time he tumbled to the right, rolling hard to get out of the way. As he came to his feet he heard shouts from the man by the tree. He glanced up and saw the man pointing at his feet. He looked down and saw the man’s javelin lying among the leaves less than a yard away.

  Talon snatched it up, barely in time to dodge out of the way yet again. This time the animal was hurting and could not move so fast. Talon struck hard as it went by, burying the iron tip deep into its chest cavity. It gave an agonized squeal of pain and staggered a few yards farther on. Talon was dragged along for a couple of yards, and then was thrown to his knees. He let go as the dying animal tore the haft of the spear from his hands. Talon clambered groggily to his feet and stood panting, feet apart, watching as the beast turned slowly back toward him. He dragged out his knife and waited, braced. This creature seemed invincible. An arrow whispered past him and embedded itself deep in the animal’s back with a thump on the solid flesh, then another and another.

  The boar, now bristling with arrows and two javelins and pouring blood from its wounds, stared at him with pain-filled eyes and started to run at him. But it was done. The massive animal ran four paces and fell on its front, almost at Talon’s feet, its snout buried in the deep loam of the ground.

  Talon remained where he was, bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He barely heard the shouts and cheers from the Welshmen and the wounded man who staggered down to slap him on the back with his good arm, grinning and yelling praise. Then Gareth and the others were clustered about him, shouting and clapping him on the back as well.

  “M’lord Talon, what a battle! What a great battle! That is a noble beast you have slain. We shall sing of this.”

  “You mean we slew, Gareth! I could not have killed that monster on my own. Your arrows did good work!” Talon gasped.

  They all stared at the dead animal. Once he had caught his breath, Talon had time to examine it. It was an enormous animal, even in death. He estimated that it had stood a good four feet at the shoulder. All of them clustered in awe about the creature, the spears and the arrows still protruding from its body.

  They exclaimed at its size and the length of its tusks. Talon remembered the feel of the razor edge as it tore his trews. He glanced down and noticed with some surprise that there was a trickle of blood down his leg.

  Gareth noticed as well. “M’lord Talon, are you hurt?”

  “No, Gareth. It is only a scratch. He could have done much worse.”

  “Thank the Lord that he did not, sir.”

  The man who had broken his arm was sitting down again, attended by Anwl, who was talking to him. He said something in Welsh.

  The man told him his name, Cervin, in his native language of Languedoc. They were both babbling in their own language, quite unaware, it seemed, that neither could understand the other. Nevertheless, Anwl had fashioned a respectable sling for Cervin within minutes.

  Cervin thanked him and then came to kneel in front of Talon. “My Lord, you saved my life. I shall always be grateful. May the Lord God protect and bless you.”

  Talon was embarrassed and helped him up. “You should thank the Welshmen here; they killed it as surely as did I. We should get you back home to rest and try to set the arm. Perhaps I can help when we get there.”

  Gareth called Drudwas, the archer who had held Jabbar, to bring him over, then handed the nervous horse over to Talon.

  “Forgive me that we could not hit the animal during most of the fight, m’lord, but he was so fast and we were afraid to strike you.”

  “I realized that, Gareth. But it was a close thing, I will admit,” Talon said with a relieved grin. One of the other Welshmen pulled the javelin out of the carcass and showed it to them. The long, slim, iron shaft covered with the blood of the animal was bent well out of true. Talon recalled how much force it had taken to ram it in and then he had hung onto it. No wonder it had bent.

  “We can get the blacksmith to straighten it out for us when we get back,” he said.

  Talon noted that two of the archers who seemed to be arguing over which arrow belonged to which archer, and which had done the most harm. They would examine each arrow carefully, and then point to features that indicated it's ownership.

  Gareth noticed Talon's attention directed at the two men and grinned.

  “Pay no attention to them,
m’lord; Belth and Devonalt argue all the time. They're cousins,” he said, as if that explained it.

  He sharply called over to the two, whereupon they looked sheepishly at him, then stopped arguing to come over and work with the others.

  “If you will take our bows as well, m’lord, we will carry the animal back with us to the fort.” Gareth suggested politely.

  Talon agreed willingly, whereupon the Welshmen quickly and efficiently set about cutting long poles and hoisted the boar onto their shoulders. It took four of them to carry the huge animal hanging from the two poles.

  As they set off through of the forest with Talon in the lead they heard the distant sound of the horn. They all paused to listen. In the silence that followed Talon was struck by how quiet the forest could be. The light was soft and tinged with a light green reflected from the high canopy with only stray beams of light coming through to illuminate the leafy floor.

  They had all forgotten the main hunt in the excitement of the kill. They decided they should find their way out of the forest and wait on the edge for his father to show up. Which they did, thanks to Gareth and Belth, who seemed to be able to find their way back out of the labyrinth with ease. They emerged almost where they had entered the woods and here they rested thankfully, as the load was very heavy. While they were resting they heard the horn again, much closer, and soon after the other horsemen came out of the woods farther off, sweating and ruffled but excited from their success. They came galloping along the edge of the woods shouting and hallowing toward Talon, who was still mounted.

  “What happened, Talon?” Sir Hughes shouted cheerfully. “Did you get lost?”

  Talon said nothing. He pointed to the archers, who were now standing respectfully for Sir Hughes.

  His father glanced at them and then stopped. His eyes widened. “My saints be praised, Philip, they have killed a boar!”

  After that there was much calling and exclaiming as the rest of the hunt came up with their trophy and men exchanged stories about each kill. Sir Hughes was enormously pleased that Talon had so distinguished himself. The pride in his son was clear in his eyes as he clapped Talon on the shoulder. Philip did the same, but with loud and exuberant praise. Max grinned and lifted his hand in a half salute. Talon grinned back at him.

  “Father, Philip, this was only done with the help of the Welshmen. Without their arrows I truly think I would have become its prey, along with Cervin here.”

  They moved off back to the fort, a joyful party of men with the Welshmen singing at the top of their lungs as they carried the boar between them. It was a triumphant party of disheveled men who arrived back at the fort and paraded through the gates, followed by half the village eager to see the kills and share in the excitement.

  People from inside the fort came running from their tasks to witness the great carcass of the boar and to exclaim at its size. Children ran up and gawked, touched its coarse hide and then ran off to stare wide-eyed while the grown-ups discussed the last time they had ever seen one so large. Women folk who were there cast admiring glances at Talon, who quickly made himself scarce and set about putting Jabbar up in a stall and making sure he was well fed.

  Having done that, he made his way toward the main hall, where this time he was determined to ask his mother for a place to have a bath, where he could sit and wash weeks of grime away. He had barely crossed the yard when his younger brother came running up and without preamble stood in front of him, feet planted apart and his arms crossed, demanding to know if indeed it was he who had killed the boar.

  “Yes, Guillaume, I did, but I had help from the Welshmen too,” he confessed.

  “I want to hear the whole thing from you, Talon. Were you not afraid?” His eyes widened as he saw the blood on Talon’s right leg. “You're wounded!” he exclaimed in awe.

  Talon laughed and, squatting down, he faced Guillaume. “I was frightened out of my wits. It was so fast I could hardly stay in front of it. The Welshmen and I ran about in circles all the time until it was so tired it died right behind us.”

  Guillaume looked hard at the man squatting in front of him; he was sure that he was being teased. “I do not think you would run from it,” he said gravely and then he laughed happily at the twinkle in Talon’s eye.

  “Now, Guillaume, I need your help. I have to have a bath and I want to ask Mother where I can get one.”

  Guillaume looked appalled. “A bath! Talon, those are bad for you. You can catch your death from the grippe that way.” The boy spoke with authority as though he had learned this lore from others. There was a snort of derisive laughter behind them. Aicelina was standing by the well and heard the exchange.

  Talon turned and smiled at her. “Perhaps you can help me obtain some hot water, Aicelina? I would truly have a bath, but I do not know where to get one.”

  She smiled, showing good teeth. “I shall talk to your mother. I see you are wounded. Do you need help to address that?”

  “Thank you. I am fine, but we should help Cervin. He has a broken arm that will need to be set.” He saw a hesitation and hurriedly said, “I know how to set a broken arm if it's not too badly damaged. We should do this before I take my bath. Can you help?”

  She nodded. “I have helped to set bones before.”

  They found Cervin sitting on a pile of hay still telling the story of the battle. He was surrounded by villagers and children listening raptly to the tale.

  He saw Talon and Aicelina coming up and hastily got to his feet. “I would thank you again for my life, m’lord,” he stated respectfully.

  “You might not thank me when I have finished with you, Cervin, but we have to set your arm or you will never hold a tool again. Have you the courage to go through with it?”

  Cervin blanched, but then set his chin. “You have shown me your courage, m’lord. I shall show you mine.”

  Talon nodded approval. By this time Gareth and a couple of the archers had sauntered over.

  “Gareth, Aicelina will need your help,” Talon said. He was relying on his memory and the instructions he had learned from his mentor and friend, Dr Farj’an. “I shall need four sticks about the width of your thumb, and then some leather straps and a width of linen. We will have to replace the sling that Anwl made when we are finished.”

  They took the white and nervous Cervin into the hall and shut the doors on the curious. Talon made him sit with his forearm on the table. It was now quite swollen and red. He gave the sweating man a strip of leather and told him to bite down on it, and then asked Gareth and the other archers to hold him while he and Aicelina examined the break.

  To his relief it seemed like a straight break and there was no puncture. Aicelina saw this, too, and agreed with him that it was less serious. Then, with Gareth’s help, he held the trembling man’s upper arm rigid and they pulled the wrist as hard as they could. Cervin promptly fainted.

  After that it was easy for Aicelina to locate the bones and with Talon’s help fit them together. In his opinion, it was a good effort and it seemed that the bones went together where they should. After that it was a matter of wrapping and splinting with the sticks and leather. By the time Cervin woke up, his forearm was well and truly trussed and they were preparing to put it in a sling. He gasped with the pain but Aicelina gave him some mulled wine with some herbs that seemed to alleviate the worst of it.

  He wiped his pallid sweating brow and thanked them all. The archers, thankful that it was over, were rewarded with some of the same wine by Aicelina and settled in to do some drinking.

  “All we need is a good bard with his harp well tuned and we will have a Welsh feast,” said Gareth to Talon.

  Talon was puzzled, “A bard? A harp? What do you mean, Gareth?”

  “Ah, Talon! In Wales we make the best music in the world with our bards—minstrels as you call them. Our bards can make stones weep with their music. Are you going to join us Talon, Bach?”

  Talon looked at the ragged group of grinning archers doubtfully then smiled a
nd shook his head. “I am away to clean the mud off.”

  Talon went after Aicelina, who was walking away. He smiled at her with a new respect and asked again for a bath. She nodded and smiled back. It seemed a bond of sorts had grown between them.

  His mother had been watching from the background and now bustled up and took charge of organizing the bath. She clucked at the torn hose and the bloody leg, but didn’t insist when Talon told her not to fuss. Aicelina gave him a small pottery jar of smelly ointment that she told him to put on the cut when he had finished his ablutions and told him to bring the garment to her for repair later.

  He luxuriated in an old trough full of hot water that his mother had commandeered for him. Aicelina even provided him with some coarse soap she told him she used on the linen. He took it gingerly, realizing that this was the best he could expect.

  Pages, with ready blade, were there,

  The mighty meal to carve and share:

  O’er capon, heron shrew, and crane,

  And princely peacock’s gilded train,

  And o’er the boar-head, garnished brave,

  And cygnet from St Mary’s wave;

  O’er ptarmigan and venison,

  The priest had spoken his benison.

  - Sir Walter Scott

  Chapter 5

  The Feast

  The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the feast. Sir Hughes and Sir Philip were to be found near the fire pits with Max and other men from the fortress. The deer and boar carcasses were gutted and skinned. The great boar’s head was cleaned and then given pride of place on a long table in the hall.