Ironhand

by Hilary Green

  The last word was lost in a choking gasp as Ranulph's fist hit him in the mouth. The flat of Ranulph's blade came down on his wrist and the sword fell from his numbed hand; then Ranulph's hands were round his throat.

  When Ranulph recovered his senses, Dirk was motionless on the ground. He looked for his sword and found it a short way off, where he must have dropped it. There was no blood on it, and none on the one he had knocked out of Dirk's hand. He stooped and called Dirk's name, but there was no response. His face was deadly pale and a trickle of blood ran from his nose and pooled on the grass. When Ranulph bent over him he could feel no hint of breath against his cheek. For a long moment he stood paralysed; then he turned and ran.

  He ran until his lungs burned and his legs shook; and when he could run no further he found himself leaning on the parapet of one of the many bridges that crossed the canals. Darkness had fallen and the water in the canal glided below him as smooth as oil, reflecting the glimmering lights from lamps in the houses that lined the banks. As his breathing quietened, he forced himself to think. He had no memory of the end of the fight. He knew he had grabbed Dirk by the throat but he had no idea how long he had held him or how hard he had gripped. Long and hard enough to render him unconscious, anyway. He might not be dead. Should he go back to find out? But if he was, he might be caught and accused of murder. He had not meant to kill. He had not meant to kill Osric, either; but that had been the result. So now he was a murderer twice over.

  One thing was clear, at least. He could never go back to the house he had begun to think of as home. Even if Dirk was not dead, the story of the fight would come out and it would be seen that he could not be trusted to behave rationally. Dirk had had a reasonable motive. His behaviour to Beatrix had been unacceptable. Whatever way you looked at it, this had all been his fault. Now, like Adam cast out from the garden of Eden, he had debarred himself from the family that had taken him in, given him a roof over his head and food and a career in which he could prosper – and love. Yes, he had been loved, and this was how he had repaid them. So once more he was homeless and without means to support himself. He had been rescued once by the monk who had found him hiding in the hollow tree, and again by Piet. He could not expect some new guardian angel to come to his aid this time.

  He looked down again at the black water. It was tempting to swing himself over the parapet and let himself drop. But he could swim. Piet had insisted that he learn, and he knew that once he hit the water the instinct to save himself would be too strong. Unless he was weighed down somehow. Weights! He looked round in desperation. Nothing suggested itself, until his eyes dropped to the cobbles at his feet. He knelt and began to scrabble at the edge of one, trying to loosen it. He broke his nails and made his finger tips bleed, but the thing remained firmly lodged.

  A soft hand was laid over his, and a voice said, 'Now then, my angel. There's never any need for that.'

  He looked up into the face of a woman. It was not the whore who had accosted him the previous evening, but the one who had called to him from her balcony on his way home a few days ago. The one who always called him 'angel'.

  She said, 'Come along now. You need a beaker of warm wine and someone's arms around you. Whatever's happened, it can't be as bad as you're thinking.'

  He allowed her to pull him to his feet. 'How did you know … how did you guess?'

  'I've been watching you from my balcony. My house is just over there, see? I could see you were in a state about something from the moment you appeared. Come along. It's not far.'

  She was not a young woman, but her brown eyes were kind and her skin smooth. He was sorely in need of warmth and comfort, so he let her lead him off the bridge and into a house. They climbed a narrow stair to a room on the first floor. It was almost filled by a large bed but at one end, built out over the main door, there was a chimney and a good fire glowed in the hearth. She pressed him down on a stool close to it and brought him a beaker of wine from a side table. Then she knelt down and pulled off his boots.

  'There. That's more comfortable, isn't it? Drink up. There's plenty more.'

  The wine was flavoured with some of the exotic spices he had seen on sale in the market. He had eaten little since breakfast and it went to his head. He emptied the cup and felt a delicious easing of tension. For a moment his eyes closed. When he opened them, she was leaning over him to refill the beaker and he saw that she had taken off her robe and was wearing nothing but a shift made of lawn so fine that he could see the dark bosses of her nipples and the darker shadow at the top of her thighs. She was a large woman, fleshy and big breasted. He had never seen a woman unclothed and he felt his own body respond. She saw it too, for she smiled and drew him to his feet.

  'Leave the drink for now. Other pleasures await. Here, let me help you.'

  She took his cloak and laid it aside, undid his belt, then with practised ease pulled his tunic over his head. Taken by surprise, he stepped back and she reached up and took his face between her hands.

  'First time? I should have known. Don't worry. I'm a good teacher. You couldn't find a better.'

  She took both his hands and laid them against her breasts and he felt the nipples hard under his fingers. His brain was a tumult of contrary emotions. Physical desire almost overwhelmed all else, but still there was a small voice that insisted 'This is wrong. She is Eve, through whom sin came into the world.'

  'There, that's nice, isn't it? Go on, don't be afraid. You won't hurt me.' Her voice had sunk to a low purr and her fingers were busy, loosening the laces that held his hose to his braies. Then he felt her hands at his waist, beginning to pull down his braies and memory erupted, drowning desire. He wrenched himself free.

  'No! No, I can't. You can't …'

  She began to chuckle. 'Yes, you can. Big, well grown lad like you. 'Course you can. Come here.'

  Her hands went to his crotch and he jumped back as if she had stung him. Frantically he grabbed his tunic and pulled it over his head.

  Her voice was sharper. 'Now then, that's enough. There's no need to be silly.' Then, softly again, 'Come here and let me hold you. There's nothing to worry about.'

  He was fastening his belt and struggling to get his feet into his boots. 'I can't! I'm sorry. I have to go.'

  'You're going to regret this later. You won't get another chance like this.' She was angry now.

  He thrust his hand into the purse that hung from his belt and pulled out a handful of coins, which he threw onto the bed. He had no idea if it was enough, or more than she expected. He was already on his way to the stairs.

  Her voice followed him. 'Go then! You ungrateful little bastard! And don't come back here again.'

  Out in the street he started to run again, with the same aimless desperation that had driven him after the fight with Dirk. When he ran out of breath this time he was outside an inn, in a part of the city he hardly knew. From inside came the sound of voices and laughter. The door opened and two men came out. Lamplight spilled across the cobbles, bringing with it a wave of heat and the smell of food. Ranulph realised he was ravenous. Why not go in and get something to eat, and get drunk? He had been drunk once or twice before, in the company of fellow crew members. He remembered the headache and the nausea of the morning after; but he remembered too the sense of companionship, the shedding of all anxiety and finally the blessed oblivion. That was what he needed now. He felt in his purse. There were still coins there, enough probably for what he wanted. With a painful twist in his gut he remembered the small, carefully hoarded fortune locked in the coffer in the room he shared with Dirk. There was no possibility of ever reclaiming that now. He pushed open the door of the inn and went in.

  He found a table in a dark corner and ordered beer and a bowl of soup. The place was crowded and there was a hubbub of voices, an unintelligible background noise. He was halfway down his beer when individual words began to distinguish themselves in his mind. Words he had not heard for a long time. Words in his own language, which he had not
spoken for years. He looked around and saw that they came from a group of men sitting at a table not far away. The voices were raucous, but the way the men were dressed contrasted with the roughness of their speech. Their clothes were not ostentatious, like those of the wealthy burgesses of the city, but they were of good material and their belts and boots were of high quality, glossy leather. More interestingly, to Ranulph, they all carried daggers in their belts and propped in a corner beside their table was a clutch of two-headed battle axes. Fighting men, then, and English! His pulse quickened. Could this be what he had dreamed of for so long; the beginning of a force assembling to drive out the invaders?

  He swallowed the remains of his drink and rose, slightly unsteadily, to his feet. Crossing to the other table he broke into the conversation.

  'Greetings, friends.' The English words were rusty on his tongue.

  The men stopped talking and looked round. One replied, 'Greetings to you. You speak our language?'

  'It is my own, too. Though I have not used it for some years. It is good to hear it spoken again.'

  Deep set blue eyes considered him. 'And by your accent I would guess you come from the same part of the world as we do. A fellow Northumbrian? How do you call yourself?'

  'My name is Ranulph. My father was Thane of Erbistock, near Chester, until …'

  'Until the Bastard sent his soldiers to slaughter us,' a second voice said.

  'You suffered too?'

  'There's not a man among us who didn't lose parents or brothers in that massacre.'

  The first man hooked a stool out from under the table with his foot. 'Sit. Tell us what a boy from Chester is doing here in Bruges. My name is Leofric, by the way.'

  He was a big man, with hair the colour of old straw, worn long in the fashion Ranulph remembered from his childhood, and a drooping moustache that framed, without concealing, lips and chin which had the firm set of authority. His shoulders were broad and beneath the sleeves of his tunic his arms bulged with a swordsman's muscles. Ranulph sat and someone put a fresh tankard of beer in front of him. He told them what he could remember of the attack on his father's house and how he had been found and brought up in the monastery. He told them that he had run away and had been taken on board a cog trading to Ireland; and that he had subsequently transferred to another ship which plied between Gascony and Bruges. He did not tell them what Osric had done to him. Nor did he mention Piet.

  'A seaman, eh?' said Leofric. 'From the look of you, I would have taken you for someone better off. A merchant's son, perhaps.'

  Ranulph dropped his gaze. The comparison was too close for comfort. 'Because I grew up in the monastery, I can read and write. The master of the ship found that useful, and rewarded me accordingly. But, please, tell me how you come to be here and where you are going. Is there an army being raised to attack the usurper?'

  Leofric gave a short laugh. 'Not one I've heard of. We'd be off to join it if we had.'

  'Then what are you doing here? I can see you are armed.'

  'Just passing through. We've a contract in Italy to fulfil.' Then, seeing Ranulph's look of puzzlement, 'We're mercenaries, lad. Swords for hire. It's the only way we know of making a living.'

  'Mercenaries? How did that come about?'

  Leofric looked around at his companions. 'We have different stories, but all come from the same root. For myself, I grew up near Carlisle. My father was a man-at-arms to Earl Athelstan and he was killed, as yours was, defending the earl's land against the Normans. When the fighting was over, those of us left alive fled across the Wall to join our rightful lord, Edgar Atheling. He had taken refuge there and married his sister to the Scottish King.'

  'I wish I could have been with you,' Ranulph said. 'I, too, would have wished to pledge my service to King Edgar.'

  Leofric smiled. 'You cannot have been more than a child, at that time. Too young to be of much use to him. Not that we were able to help much, in the end. We followed him into battle when the new rebellion broke out a year later, but William came north and defeated us at York. We tried again when Sweyn of Denmark came to support us and it seemed for a few months that we might succeed in wresting Northumbria from the usurper's grasp.' He paused and shook his head. 'But it was not to be. William attacked us again in York, with vastly bigger forces, and we could not withstand him. We went back to Scotland, but in '72 William attacked and forced Malcolm of Scotland to accept him as overlord, and he had no choice but to ask Lord Edgar to leave. He came here, to Flanders …'

  'King Edgar is here, in Flanders. If I had known …'

  'Not any more. Philip of France offered him a castle on the borders of Normandy and he used that as a base to mount an attack by sea. It was a disaster. The ships were wrecked and many of our men were drowned or taken prisoner by William's forces. We here,' he nodded at his companions, 'were lucky to escape with our lives. From what I hear, Edgar is back in England, reconciled to William and living as his vassal.'

  'King Edgar, the usurper's vassal? Can it be true?'

  'You've not heard anything of all this?'

  'I heard rumours of the rebellions when I was in the monastery, but we were never allowed to question what was happening. I suppose by the time I left all this was over, and the merchants and people I mix with are not interested in politics, unless it affects their trade. But what did you do, after the king returned to England?'

  'We came back here and met up with others like us, men with no homes, no lord to serve, only their own strength for sustenance. We banded together and offered ourselves to any lord with a fight on his hands. There has never been any shortage of work.'

  'There are more of you, then?'

  Leofric looked round at the others and there was a general guffaw of amusement. 'We seven wouldn't be much good to anyone on our own. Yes, there are more. Close on a hundred, at full strength.'

  'Where are the rest?'

  'Scattered at the moment. Some of them have married and begotten children, and they take the opportunity to go home when we are between contracts. Others are courting, or whoring. We prefer to drink, while we still have money for beer and throats to pour it down.' His companions greeted this with a cheer and raised tankards. 'But this is our last evening of freedom,' Leofric went on. 'Tomorrow we rendezvous with the rest of the army at Ghent. Then we head south. Emperor Henry is collecting forces for an attack on Rome.'

  'Rome!'

  'He's fallen out with Pope Gregory and wants to install his own man instead.'

  'How can that happen? I thought the Pope was appointed by God.'

  Leofric shrugged. 'So did we all. But there seems to be some question about which man God has chosen. Anyway, it's all the same to us. The point is, Gregory is being supported by Guiscard, the Norman weasel, so as far as we're concerned Henry is in the right. Anyone who offers us a chance to have a go at the Normans gets my support. Eh, lads?'

  There was a growl of support. Ranulph felt himself suddenly short of breath. Where an hour ago his future had been a blank, bereft of all comfort and purpose, now a new world of possibilities was opening before him. He swallowed hard and said, 'Can I come with you?'

  9.

  Ranulph stood in the narrow alley that ran behind Piet's house. It was in total darkness, but he stood for some time straining his ears for any sound from inside – agitated voices, cries of mourning perhaps – but the silence was unbroken. He moved closer to the wall that bounded the courtyard. There was an apple tree that grew on the far side of the wall, greatly treasured by Mariella. He and Dirk had competed to see who could climb the highest when he first arrived in Bruges and had been slapped for damaging it. He knew that some of its branches reached almost to the top of the wall. If he could reach one, it would be easy to climb down. He drew in his breath and jumped for the top of the wall. His fingers grasped the coping stones and his feet scrabbled for purchase on the surface. For a moment he felt he must let go and drop back, but then his toe found a slight gap between the stones and he was able to
push himself up until he sat astride. The tree was close, but the nearest branch was out of his reach. He would have to launch himself from his position on the wall and hope to grab it. If he missed, he would fall and land in the pigsty. It was not a pleasant prospect, but more importantly it would disturb the old sow and the ensuing noise might rouse the household. He eased along the wall until he was as close as he could get to the branch and pushed himself off. One hand grabbed a twig, which broke, but the other found a firm grip and with a struggle he managed to haul himself onto the branch. From there it should have been easy. He had climbed the swaying mast of the Waverider many times and had no fear of heights, but finding footholds in the dark was harder than he had imagined. At length, however, he was able to lower himself onto the cobbles and stand, panting slightly, his senses stretched for any sound of alarm.

  There was movement nearby and a low growl. Bruno, the family hound, had woken. He spoke his name softly and held out a hand for him to smell. Reassured, the dog licked him and thumped his tail in greeting. Ranulph petted him for a moment, then made his way, soft-footed, to the external staircase that led up to the room he shared with Dirk. At the top he stopped, his ear pressed to the door. There was no sound from inside. Very carefully he eased the door open. The room was in darkness, but there was enough moonlight for him to make out the two beds. Both were empty. Dirk was not here. So almost certainly he was dead; but perhaps his body had not yet been discovered and everyone else was out looking for him...

  He crossed swiftly to the chest where he kept his belongings and pulled out a clean tunic, a shirt, hose and braies and his warmest cloak. He pushed them into the leather satchel he used to carry his necessaries to and from the ship and then opened the little coffer in which he kept his money. He hesitated for a long moment. He had earned the money, it was true. But had he any right to it now? In the end, he took about half of it; enough to pay for his keep for a week or two with a little over for any equipment he might need. He left the rest in the open coffer on the table. He stood, looking around him, and a lump like indigestion formed in his gut. He ached at the thought of what Piet and Mariella and the girls must be suffering; at his own ingratitude. On an impulse he took out the wax tablet he always carried and set it on the table. There was a stub of candle there and he had flint and tinder in his purse. He struck a spark and lit the candle. Then he sat down and wrote.