by Dan Davis
“It takes years to train a squire,” Jocelyn said.
“We will not teach him to fight,” I pointed out. “I do not want him as a cup-bearer at my table. I do not want him to recite poetry and play the harp. All he needs to do is carry a spare shield, clean my armour and pass me a waterskin when I ask. Hardly a task beyond a man such as this one.”
“May I carry my bow, lord?” Swein asked.
“A bow is not a typical squire’s weapon,” I said, wondering how it would look. “Yet you shall be no typical squire. But let no man in Nottingham see you with it or there will be questions to answer. We wish to be asking them, not answering. Do you understand?”
“Do you have it, lord?”
“It will be brought with us, yes,” I said. “I even had the bow cords dried out because I have seen the power of your bow and your remarkable ability with it. Yet, I cannot hand you a weapon unless I know that I may trust you with it. If you swear to be my squire, then you shall have my trust and you shall have your bow.”
“What if I do not want to be your squire, lord?” Swein asked.
“How dare you,” Jocelyn cried. “It is the greatest honour you should ever have, you rotten little turd.”
“Jocelyn,” I said. He turned his courser away, mumbling about having nothing to do with it. “If you do not swear to be my man, Swein, then I will never be able to trust you. If I cannot trust you then I have no use for you. I will have to hand you over to the sheriff.”
“If you do that you may as well kill me yourself,” he said, shaking with the injustice of it. “My lord.”
“You have no family, now. And you have no friends.”
“I did have,” he said.
“But now you are alone.”
“What if I do not want a master?” Swein looked down. “What if I like living in the wood, answering to no one?”
I was pleased that he was reluctant to swear to me. It showed that he would take his oath seriously, not swear one day and run the next. Although, anything was possible.
“Every man has a master,” I said. “All that living outside the law means is that any man who is not can have power over you. Can kill you on sight. But when you serve me, you shall have food in your belly and usually a roof over your head. You will learn much that you could not learn any other way.”
He scraped at the ground with his shoe. “How long would I be bound by this oath?”
“Until I release you from it,” I said. “And I will do so when I find and kill William. Or if I am myself killed.”
“What must I do?” Swein said, sighing. “There is a ceremony?”
“There is,” I said. “But we must make haste.”
And, I did not add, you are too low born to warrant it.
“Kneel. Hold out your hands to me as if in prayer. I will take them, you will repeat my words back to me and mean them in your heart. For the men here will bear witness and God will know the truth in you. Now, speak thusly. I promise on my faith that I will in the future be faithful to my lord Sir Richard of Ashbury, never cause him harm and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.”
The lad did so swear, I clapped him on the back and saw to my horse.
“My lord,” Swein said. “May you grant to me my bow now?”
“Gladly.”
A servant brought the unstrung bow stave, quiver and arrows, all of which Swein snatched.
The lad caressed the thing like a lover, checking it all over for damage. He licked his thumb to wipe off some stain or other.
When all was ready, I gave the servants my final commands and told Anselm to ride out. Jocelyn was by then through the gate and ranging away, gloomy and irate.
“Lord,” Swein said, looking anxiously at the packhorses and remounts as Anselm swung onto his fine young rouncey. “I know not how to ride.” Swein’s cheeks coloured.
I laughed at his ignorance. “Nor shall you learn,” I said. “You will walk. As befits your station. We will not ride quickly, merely fifteen or twenty miles a day or so. Now, follow Anselm. Carry these bags.”
Swein was relieved and angry at the same time.
When all was ready, I kissed Emma at the gate.
“We shall not be far,” I said. “I shall miss you.”
“I will not miss you,” she said, smiling. “I may finally get your house in order with you out of it.”
“It is your house as much as it is mine,” I said. “More so. I would have been ruined many times over without you, as you well know. Bar the gate and the doors each night long before dark. The men know their duty and someone or other will be on watch every night. Every labourer able to fight will sleep in the hall and take turns upon the walls. The door is repaired so thoroughly that it is stronger than ever. I would not leave if I thought I left you unsafe.”
“Do not go hard on that boy Swein,” Emma said. “He is a bright young man. I know why you took him into your service but with the right kind of guidance, he could serve you well.”
“He’ll never be tamed, that one,” I said. “It is only a matter of when he breaks his oath and whether he commits a grave crime or simply flees. Oh, do not glare at me so, I know his station is not of his making but he is an outlaw, I will not have him.”
“At least, promise me that you will look after Jocelyn,” Emma said. “He is in one of his black moods again.”
“And do I not know it,” I said. “He needs a battle.”
“He needs a wife,” she said. “As do you.”
“As you need a husband, girl,” I shot back, for the hundredth time.
She hesitated. “I know that you do not wish to hear it,” she said. “But I will pray that you let God back into your life. You stop yourself from feeling anything that has hurt you but you are also denying yourself any joy from life or from God’s love. It is not God’s will that you continue to deny your soul his love.”
I ground my teeth and took a breath before answering. “I will feel joy again when I bring justice to William de Ferrers.”
“God be with you, Richard,” Emma said, disappointed in me, somehow. “I hope you find that which you seek.”
“I shall find it,” I said, swinging into my saddle. “Find it, and then stick its head upon a spike.”
***
It was a day’s slow ride from Ashbury to Derby. From there it was one road straight to Nottingham. A simple, two-day journey. But before we reached our destination, we were ambushed.
That first day, Swein was battling within himself, wondering if he had made a mistake when he had sworn himself to me. He trudged silently, bent under the loads he carried and the decision he had made.
I wanted to question him about William but I let him be, walking beside the horses, his bow stave resting upon his shoulder.
Jocelyn ranged ahead, watching for trouble.
In 1216, England was at war with itself. King John, the youngest and favourite son of old King Henry had ruled the country for the seventeen years since Richard the Lionheart had died. John had faced enormous problems from the start of his reign, losing his family’s vast possessions in France one after the other. He had spent years mounting unsuccessful campaigns to regain those lands, beggaring the country with taxes and fines.
Tired of being divested of their money for over a decade, the rebel barons had finally taken up arms against King John. England was a country up in arms. One lord after another had declared for one side or the other and everywhere there were armed knights, men-at-arms, their squires, mercenaries and locally levied commoners assembling here and there to defend or attack one castle or another. Men-at-arms were what we called anyone who fought in full armour, usually on horseback. All knights were men-at-arms but not all men-at-arms were knights. They could be squires or mercenaries or freemen and burgesses who could afford the equipment to so arm themselves.
In fact, every man in England would be armed and armoured in the appropriate fashion unless he had good rea
son to do otherwise. Arming yourself to the fullest extent allowable by your station was not just desirable, or honourable, it was carefully prescribed in law.
But the road to Derby was familiar and well travelled and I felt safe. Anselm stayed beside me, leading the packhorses with his well-behaved rouncey.
“I do not wish to add to your burdens,” I said to Anselm as we rode. The day was cold and blustery but winter felt over and it was dry. “Since Geoffrey left us you have been squiring for two knights. You are already overworked. Even squiring for Jocelyn without the help of a page or two is too much for one squire.”
“No, my lord,” Anselm said, his cheeks flushed pink with the cold.
“I grew up with many knights and many squires,” I said. “It was hard work, I remember it well. I wish I could afford to keep more men. With things the way they are in England, I do not know when this will change.”
“I understand, my lord,” Anselm said.
“I know you do,” I said. “And that is why I will ask even more of you. You must show Swein how to pass for a squire.”
Anselm and Swein shot looks at each other, one looking down and one looking up.
“I know this task is not possible, even with a year of work,” I said and held up a hand to forestall Swein’s protests. “I say this not as a slight to you but because it is true for any man. It takes years to make a knight. Any knight. I was seven when I started my training. How old are you, Swein?”
He did not want to tell me but he did. “Sixteen years old, my lord.”
“The same age as Anselm,” I said. “How long have you been learning to squire, Anselm?”
“Nine years.”
“How long from now before you can become a knight?”
“Another five years.”
“You will never be a knight,” I said to Swein. “I do not try to make you one. But you will listen to Anselm. He knows everything that you must learn. You must keep rust from my armour and weapons. You must carry them and prepare them for me, should I need them. You will fetch me food and water, on the road, at inns, in battle. You will stand watch at night. You will rise early to build a fire. You will do all that is asked of you, without complaint.”
“A servant, then,” Swein said, his voice full of bitterness.
“Yes,” I said. “That is what a squire is. You think these tasks beneath you?”
He looked away.
“I did these things. Jocelyn did these things. I also served as a cupbearer and server at banquets, bringing drunken lords their wine. I emptied nightsoil buckets and dug pits for my lords to shit in. Anselm scrubs our armour with vinegar and sand, scouring his hands raw. You never get the stench off your hands, I know. You think service is beneath you? Anselm, who is your noble father?”
“William Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke.”
Swein’s mouth dropped open and his step faltered. He looked upon Anselm with amazement. “I have heard of that man.”
I laughed aloud. “Have you, indeed?”
“I am merely a fifth son,” Anselm said, undermining my point.
“Nevertheless,” I said. “His father is the most famous, most celebrated knight in Christendom. Anselm, would you dig me a pit to shit into, if I asked it.”
“You have asked it,” Anselm said, smiling. “I do it gladly.”
“So,” I said to Swein. “You will learn everything Anselm teaches you.”
“I already know how to shit in a hole,” Swein said.
***
Overnight we stayed at Darley Abbey, sleeping upon the floor of the hospital. Darley Abbey had been one of the many houses partly founded by Robert de Ferrers, the great lord who had sired me. William de Ferrers was his son and heir, whereas I had not known about my true parentage until I had confronted William in Palestine. Our special blood came from our father but if the old man had known any secrets of our bloodline, it had died with him. William had poisoned our father and then cut off his head when he later rose from the dead.
Darley Abbey had many benefactors in the years since but it was no great religious house. The hospital was small but it was ours alone. There were so few travellers at that time. Most folks stayed in their parish and went no further than the nearest market but there were always travelling folk, tradesmen and ambitious men going from place to place. But not in 1216.
It suited me. I had not travelled without servants for many years. Doing many simple things for myself on that journey with was almost refreshing. It would have reminded me of the lonely travels of my youth were it not for the constant bickering between my sworn men, who were all children whether grown men or not.
From the Abbey outside Derby, we had one more day’s ride to Nottingham Castle. The road was quiet. We saw hardly a man walking and none riding. The war had frightened many into staying at home or, at least, staying away from the main routes. The brothers in the abbey had warned us about folk preying upon travellers outside of the towns.
“It is sad that England is such a dangerous place that her people go about in fear,” Jocelyn said. He spoke in French, as we usually did but I knew he was purposely excluding Swein.
“Jocelyn grew to knighthood in the Holy Land,” I said to Swein in English. “He claims that the roads there are so safe that a woman can travel without an escort, with gold in both hands, from Antioch to Acre and remain unmolested.”
“I said no such thing,” Jocelyn said.
“Not sober, anyway,” I said to Swein, who grinned. “Listen, all of you. Monks are terrified of the world. They shut themselves away because they are cowards. Monks impart nothing but fear because that is all they have to give. Never was there a monk in all the world who did not warn travellers of the dangers of the roads. They seek to frighten you into giving alms. Monks and priests are peddlers of fear. A war in the land is good fortune for every religious house, order, monk, deacon and bishop.”
“Do not listen to this man, Anselm,” Jocelyn said. “He is making a jest.”
Perhaps Jocelyn was warning me not to say anything that may get back to Anselm’s mighty father. If so, it was probably good advice.
“Sherwood stretches north many miles from Nottingham, does it not?” I said to Swein, wondering how I would search so large a place.
“It’s a right big place, alright.”
“Then you had better lead me to where William hides.”
We rode for a while up and down the hills. The land was coming into full bloom. White blossom lining the hedgerows.
“Are there outlaws in these parts?” I asked, looking at a dark band of trees on the horizon.
“There are outlaws everywhere, lord.”
Ten miles from Derby, the road passed through a sizable wood, at least, a couple of miles long. It looked to be full of sturdy oak and uncounted coppiced ash beneath.
“May I hunt, lord?” Swein asked, holding up his unstrung bow.
“We do not have time to wait while you amuse yourself,” I said. “We must reach Nottingham before nightfall.”
“I’ll run ahead through the wood alongside the road,” he said. “I move quickly. I may find us a deer or a boar.”
Jocelyn laughed from his belly, startling his horse. “You’d be lucky to find a dormouse in these woods.”
“I must practice my bow,” Swein said, attempting another angle in his argument.
I looked down at him. “Go, then, if you must. But you must find us at the other side of the wood, upon the road. We will wait for you until midday.”
He nodded his thanks and ran to the south, crashing through the undergrowth, and vanished into the gloom.
Jocelyn stared at me. “And that is the last you shall see of him.”
“Possibly,” I said. “He has told me enough to make a start.”
In truth, I felt wounded by his betrayal. I had offered him the chance to squire for me. Knights from the best families in England offered me their sons that they may learn from me the skill in battle that had made me famous. And the
filthy commoner had betrayed his oath almost as soon as it was uttered.
“I will have to find another squire,” I said to Jocelyn. “When we get to Nottingham, I am sure there will be some lads or grown men who would leap into the arms of my employment.”
“A squire for you and some general servants,” Jocelyn said, whom I kept armed and equipped at my own expense. I loved him like a son and he loved to spend my money.
The robber’s ambush was sprung was when we were about halfway through the wood.
Jocelyn, riding ahead of Anselm and me as usual, came galloping back to us from beyond a bend in the road. He cared greatly for horses, his own mounts he loved, and would never sweat them unnecessarily.
“A line of brush has been dragged across the road,” he said. “Less than half a mile away.”
I looked around into the shadows of the wood to either side. The wind rustled the young leaves above. It was not possible to see more than a few yards through the dense coppiced ash poles stretching away.
“Surely, robbers would not attack two knights and a squire?” I looked to Anselm for confirmation, as if he would know.
“It was hard winter,” Jocelyn said, shrugging. “And the hungry peasants grow bold.”
“Perhaps the brush has been there a while,” I said to him while drawing my own sword. “Perhaps the men are already far away with their spoils.”
“The travellers in front of us this morning must have passed through the wood,” Jocelyn said. “This trap was laid for us. They are out there. No doubt they are heading back to us here through the trees.”
“Get our shields,” I said to Anselm.
The good lad was already moving, sliding from his saddle to go for the packhorses behind when the first arrows came flitting in.
The first I saw cut the air where Anselm had been sitting. The second I felt as it smashed into my shoulder, hard enough to throw me from my horse.
I smashed into the road and knocked the wind from my chest.
A broken arrow shaft stuck out sideways from my upper arm. I must have snapped it as I fell.
Someone was shouting. Jocelyn.
