by Dan Davis
“Keep your voices down,” I hissed at them.
Jocelyn grumbled. “These robbers are hardly tournament knights.”
“Nevertheless,” I said. “I agree with Anselm. Or, rather, I trust his father’s advice in this, as in all things. We should push on a while, follow this trail. Follow our frightened little birds.”
The trees got larger in the centre of the wood. Most were still coppiced but more were single trunk oaks, scraggly-topped elms and a few beech that spread their leaves so well that little grew beneath them. The under layer thinned out the going became easier. Still, we were all soaked from brushing against sodden leaves and branches and the dripping from the trees above.
“If these bowmen are fleeing,” Jocelyn said, stomping through the wet litter behind me. “Surely catching them matters not? Their friends have received their earthly justice and will no doubt be suffering their eternal one today. Why not let these men go?”
“It is a lord’s duty to protect those sworn to him,” I said over my shoulder to Jocelyn. “If we do not capture these men, the folk of Ashbury will be nervous for weeks. And what if they raid the village? Or the Priory? This is our duty. Remember that when you have your own lands.”
Jocelyn scoffed. “The chance of such a thing would be very fine indeed.”
Anselm stopped by a small clearing and peered at the trampled grass.
I lifted my shield up higher. “What is it?” I asked, standing behind him.
“Deer, perhaps,” the squire said. “Or men.”
“Watch for arrows,” I said. “Keep your shields high.”
He walked around the edges of the clearing, poking at the ground with his toes, looking for sign. There were a couple of badger or deer tracks leading out of the clearing. That sort of thing was beyond me so I left him to it.
“Did you not wonder why those men were so fast?” I asked Jocelyn. “So strong?”
Jocelyn stared at me. “You are imagining things.”
“You were very young,” I said to him. “Perhaps you do not remember how William’s blood drinking monsters were in Palestine but-”
“I remember everything.” Jocelyn stared at me, his eyes wild.
“Of course,” I said, as gently as I could. “Yet when was the last time you were bested by a single man?”
Anselm, across the clearing, glanced back at us. He knew little about our past. I gestured at him to keep looking.
“I was not bested,” Jocelyn said. “I defended, knowing that he would tire.”
I said nothing.
“Perhaps we should return?” Jocelyn said. “We have no hope of finding the peasant bastards.”
“It may be best if you go to the manor house,” I said and a thought struck me. Had we been lured away intentionally? I should have left one good man at home. “Yes. Yes, go. Guard your sister while Anselm and I push on for a while. That is if you do not mind lending me your squire?”
Jocelyn agreed and turned to head back when Anselm hissed a warning from up ahead.
We all dropped lower, crouching behind our shields.
“What is it?” I whispered as I crept up beside him.
“Ahead,” Anselm said, peering low through the trees. “Man lying in wait for us.”
I followed his outstretched finger. Water patted down all around, dripping and dripping.
A dark mass lay in the shadows beneath a cluster of young oak.
The scent of blood was in the air.
“He lays in wait,” I said. “But not for us.”
I stood, drew my sword and approached the dead body, listening for movement. The others stalked behind me.
“Keep your shields raised high,” I said as we came near.
One of the bowmen lay upon his back. He wore the green tunic, cloak and hood as the other attackers. A bow lay nearby, his arrow bag squashed under him, the arrow shafts poking out into the mud. The dead fellow in green staring up at the branches with one open eye.
The other eye had been obliterated by an arrow. The shaft stuck straight out of the socket. The goose feather fletching shone white in the gloom.
“I suppose they had a disagreement,” Jocelyn observed.
“Perhaps the killer did not want his fellow caught and questioned,” I said. “Protecting his master, as your beast with the falchion did in the hall.”
“Why did they go for the eyes?” Jocelyn asked, pointing at the man’s lack of armour. “Surely that is a needlessly difficult shot to make?”
“It is a sure way into the head,” I said. “When a man has a belly full of William’s blood then he can recover from blows that would fell a mortal man. But I found that a blade to the brain is a reliable way to kill them.”
Jocelyn shook his head. His doubts were understandable. “At least there is one archer left for us to take. I suppose there is no need for me to return to the manor.”
“Indeed,” I said, looking through the trees. “Stay vigilant. He could be watching us now.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Anselm said. He had gone further ahead and stood looking down at his feet. I was about to berate him for lowering his shield but he kept speaking. “There are tracks of two men leading away from here.”
“You cannot possibly know that from tracks in the leaf litter.” Jocelyn sighed and stomped over to his squire. “It is too dark beneath these trees to make out anything.”
“Here, right here,” Anselm said. “One footprint here, with another laid over it, distorting it.”
“It belongs to the same man,” Jocelyn said. “Retracing his steps. Or it belongs to the dead one and he was dragged back here after he was shot. Yes, that is it.”
Anselm opened his mouth to protest and I was about to say that it did not matter either way when the uproar started.
Through the trees, up ahead. Men yelling.
I ran, pushing past them both with a clatter of shields. They followed on my heels.
At the edge of the woodland, the coppiced trees ended abruptly. Beyond, strips of fields ran away uphill, a sea of bright green shoots, wet and shining in the morning light. We had come out in the upper village field.
Halfway up it, two men fought in the furrows.
One was on his back, scrabbling away from the man standing over him. The one on his back in the dirt was gangly, young, and skinny limbed, like a spider. He wore a dark brown tunic, covered with mud, his hood pulled off to reveal his blonde hair.
The man over him was stocky, older, dressed all in green and held a long dagger high over his head. He was wavering, swaying and shaking his head as if to clear it.
He also had three arrows driven deep into his chest. Blood soaked his green tunic.
Any remaining doubt that I was dealing with William’s men was immediately gone.
I ran up the hill, shaking my arm from the strap and tossing my shield aside. Though I wore a thick gambeson under a heavy hauberk, I ran as if I was naked. My sword in my right hand, I pumped my legs to close as much of the distance as I could before they noticed me. I was faster than I remembered and immediately outpaced Jocelyn, even though he was fifteen years younger.
I shot up that hillside like an arrow from a bow, the damp earth flying out beneath my heels, trampling the shoots of wheat and rye.
The stocky man turned as I was almost upon him and his mouth gaped open just in time for my fist, closed around the hilt of my sword, to crash into his jaw. The impact jarred my hand up to the elbow. It shattered his teeth and knocked him into the furrows.
He groaned and rolled over, trying to get away but by so doing he bent, snapped and pushed the arrow shafts further through his flesh.
I stalked after him.
I heard Jocelyn and Anselm behind me seizing the youth.
The man I had struck coughed out a few teeth and spat them out with a mass of blood and sputum onto the new shoots of spring. He fumbled next to himself for his dropped dagger but I stabbed my sword point through his wrist and placed my foot on the back of his ne
ck.
“You do not get to murder yourself,” I growled. “You will tell me about William.”
I reached down and rolled him over, thrilled to be able to discover where my enemy was hiding.
Unfortunately, however, the man in green died. His breath bubbled as his mouth worked, opening and closing, forming words with no breath. His eyes rolled back. I slapped his face but there was no life there. The man was drenched in blood. Tunic through to surcoat and down to his stockings. The earth was pooling here and there with it. The delicious aroma filled my nose, my head. It was dizzying. The arrows, I supposed, had finally finished him. Drained him of blood.
I turned about in time to see Jocelyn strike the side of the young man’s hooded head with the back of his mailed hand, the skull resounding with a sickening thud. The lad fell, senseless and Jocelyn stepped forward to finish him.
“Do not kill him,” I shouted.
“He struck me,” Jocelyn objected. “This peasant struck me.”
Jocelyn’s jaw was bright red.
Anselm stood staring at the scene. His eyes wide but I was pleased to see that they were unwavering. The squire started hunting around again, looking at the tracks and he moved away, looking for something.
“These are no ordinary peasants. We take that one back to Ashbury,” I said, sheathing my blade and staring at Jocelyn and Anselm, both breathing heavily from the short chase and fight. “We shall bound him tightly. And you shall treat him gently, the both of you, no matter what he does. He is the last one alive. This lad could lead me to William. Jocelyn, watch him while I deal with this skewered one.”
“Here is a bow, my lord,” Anselm said, trudging a few paces back to us through the furrows with a huge bow held aloft in one hand, with a quiver and a few arrows over his shoulder. All were muddy.
As I took the head off the dead man, a horn sounded nearby, from the wood at the bottom of the hill.
My dogs howled from the trees and came bounding from the shadows, through the brush and up the hill toward us, mud kicking up in a shower of soil.
Bert the Bone, the kennel master, rode behind on his nag. Soaking wet, covered with leaves from following his dogs through the wood and a huge grin on his scrawny old face.
“They found a scent, my lord,” he shouted, as his dogs sniffed and howled at the body, their tales wagging. “There is a body in the woods. He’s got an arrow right through his eye, he has.”
“Keep them away from the blood. Do not let them drink the stuff or who knows what they will become,” I roared, startling Bert from his idiotic joy. He had no idea why I was afraid. Perhaps the blood of William’s men would have no effect on animals but it was not worth taking the risk. “And keep them away from the prisoner. We ride for Ashbury. I have questions for this boy.”
Chapter Two – Ambushed
“Who are you?” I asked as the young man opened his eyes. I spoke English, as the lad was clearly a commoner.
Jocelyn had not cracked the side of his skull apart but the lad had a lump above his temple the size of a goose egg. The young fellow’s eyes were unfocused and he blinked and peered about.
When I pulled off his dirty, brown hood, the blonde hair beneath was long, tangled and filthy. He reeked of old sweat and mushrooms.
I had ordered him sat upon a high stool and bound to a thick post in the scutching workshop. It was late morning and plenty of light came from the open door and open window. Poultry scratched and clucked in the yard beyond the door.
I would not have one of William’s beasts in my house. Not least because I planned to bleed him dry. Nor did I want to frighten the servants with what I was going to do to the boy. Though no doubt they would hear his screams from across the yard and inside the house. I could not bleed a man in the stables and frighten the horses. Thus, I decided that the workshops were the best place to flay this man.
“Where am I?” he asked, blinking and mumbling.
“Look at me,” I said to him and slapped his face.
His blue eyes flashed with anger as they focused on mine.
“Yes, here I am,” I said. “You are mine now, boy. You will tell me what I want to know.”
The eyes flicked to Jocelyn and Anselm standing behind me. I slapped his cheek again.
“Look to me,” I said. “No man here will save you.”
There was murder in his eyes.
“Must Anselm be here for this?” Jocelyn asked.
I kept my eyes on the boy as I answered. “Yes,” I said. “Anselm, you do not mind seeing a murderer’s blood spilled, do you?”
“No, my lord,” said Anselm.
I saw the flicker of fear I wanted to see. “Of course, if this scrawny streak of piss answers my questions then no one will see any more blood this day. Murderer or not.”
“I am no murderer,” the young man said, speaking with passion.
His voice betrayed his status. A commoner, of course, though he spoke clearly and with confidence. Often I found that a villager I had treated kindly for ten years would still mumble and stare at the floor when he addresses me.
“Not a murderer?” I said. “Are you claiming that you did you not kill your two friends back there?”
He looked confused for a moment. “They were no friends of mine.”
“Yet you did shoot your arrows into them, did you not?”
He stuck out his chin. “Is it murder when the men you kill are murderers themselves?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jocelyn said. “Of course, you fool.”
The lad shot him an angry look. “Then it should not be so.”
Jocelyn scoffed. “The arrogance of this serf.”
“I am no serf,” the boy said, straining at his bonds. “And it is you who is arrogant.”
I thumped him hard with the back of my hand.
“Do not speak thus to a knight,” I said. He glared at me, both cheeks now bright red, and I was certain he would have tried to kill me were he not restrained. “What is your name?”
He looked at me and said nothing.
I drew my dagger, slowly and I held it front of his face. “Do you see how sharp the blade is? I do not use this one for eating or for common tasks. I keep it honed so that it slips through flesh like butter. What is your name, lad?”
His eyes fixed on the point of the blade as I twisted and turned it for him so that it caught the light.
“Is it worth losing your finger,” I said. “To keep your name?”
“Swein,” he blurted. “My name’s Swein.”
“What is your real name, boy?” Jocelyn said. He had been raised in the Holy Land and had come to England as a grown man so he spoke English somewhat awkwardly.
“It’s Swein,” he said, gritting his teeth, still looking at the blade.
“You lie,” Jocelyn said.
“It matters not what his real name is,” I said. “Swein, then. Tell me, where is your master, William?”
“Who?” he asked, as if genuinely confused.
I flipped the dagger over in my hand, holding the blade and rapped the hilt against his nose.
Swein jerked back, crying out, coughing as his eyes ran and blood streamed from his nostrils and down his throat. He leaned forward as far as his bindings would allow, blood dripping onto the earth floor, drip dripping and spattering amongst the dusty remains of last year’s chaff. It was bright and shining upon his lips.
I wanted to drink it from his face and found myself leaning forward, breathing in the hot metallic scent of it.
I denied the desire, pushed it away. It was unworthy of me. Base, corrupt.
“Do you see, Anselm,” I said over my shoulder, “how a small blow to the nose can be so terribly disorienting? Such little damage caused and yet the distress it affects is remarkable.”
“Yes, my lord.” Anselm was a dutiful squire.
“Now, Swein,” I said. “I shall ask you again and this time, please ensure you answer truthfully.”
“No,” Swein coughed. “I have
no master. I know no William.”
“If that is true then who do you truly serve?” Jocelyn said.
“I am a free man,” Swein said, sitting up straight as he could with his arms tied behind his back. “As was my father.”
“But you have a lord,” I said. “Who is he? What village are you from? Where in England were you born?”
Swein spat blood on the floor. Jocelyn bristled but I waited. “Yorkshire,” Swein admitted. “I was born in Yorkshire. We lived just north of Sherwood. Me and my dad.”
“How did you come to leave your shire?” I asked.
“Is it not obvious?” Jocelyn said. “The boy is an outlaw.”
I examined Swein’s face and knew it to be true. The youth looked back at me, steadily, defiant. I should have slapped him again or, at least, threatened him but my heart was no longer on the road I had set it upon.
“Yes,” I said. “You were outlawed. You fled Yorkshire and went to another county. In some way, you came to serve a new lord. A powerful man. A man who can bestow great gifts upon those that follow him. He may not go by the name William but you know the man I mean.”
“No. You are wrong. I do not serve him,” Swein said, straining at his bonds. “I would never serve such evil.”
My heart raced. Whether he served William or not, he knew of him.
The lad could lead me to him.
“Why were you with those others?” I asked. “The ones who attacked my home, who you fought in the village field?”
“I was not with them,” Swein said, watching me closely. “I followed them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“To kill them,” he said.
“A murderer,” Jocelyn said. “He admits it before witnesses.”
“Quiet, Jocelyn,” I snapped. “Go on, Swein. Why did you think you could kill four men, alone?”
Swein nodded at me and took a deep breath.
“They were six when they set out,” he said, smiling. “After I shot the first one, they got careful. And they were quick, quicker than any man has a right to be. But they were all six of them from towns. Me, though? I’m from the wood.”
