Medieval - Blood of the Cross

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Garyn and stood up.

  ‘One more thing, Garyn,’ said Fletcher, ‘my daughter is hurting and that is not good. I will have a word and ask her to come and see you but if she deems it is ended between you, then you will honour her wish.’

  ‘When do you think she will see me?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps never,’ said Fletcher. ‘The choice is hers. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes Sir,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Now go,’ said the man, ‘until we meet tomorrow.’

  ----

  The following day, Fletcher kept his promise and spent the morning with Garyn, teaching him the finer points of riding and lance work. They set up buckets on poles and Garyn made pass after pass, trying to hit the buckets with the cumbersome weapon but it took three days until he hit the first one. After that he got better until he was successful with two out of every three passes. Finally the night before the test came and Garyn led his pony back toward Elspeth’s house, accompanied by her father.

  ‘She still hasn’t come,’ said Garyn.

  ‘I will not force her, Garyn,’ said Fletcher, ‘she knows her own mind.’

  ‘I know but if I am successful tomorrow, then I will march with Cadwallader within days. I may never see her again.’

  ‘Your choice, boy.’ said Fletcher. ‘Now, tie the horse and come inside. I have something for you.’

  Garyn once more sat at the table and waited as Fletcher climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft before returning with a Hessian wrapped package. He laid it on the table and looked at Garyn.

  ‘Open it,’ he said.

  Garyn undid the leather straps and unveiled a beautiful longsword in an ornate scabbard. The hilt was of polished oak capped with a pommel of gold.

  ‘It is wonderful,’ said Garyn pulling the weapon from the scabbard. ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘No Garyn,’ said Fletcher, ‘it belongs to your father, at least it did. He asked me to keep it for him a long time ago as he was afraid you and your brother may find it and ask too many questions. Take it, it is yours.’

  Garyn stared at the sword again.

  ‘I have never handled such a weapon,’ he said. ‘What will I do with it?’

  ‘Use it every night, Garyn,’ said Fletcher. ‘Every time you stop, get a feel for it. Ask the others to practise with you for there may come a time you need it. You will never be an expert but it just may save your life. Now, it is time for you to go, I have done what I can. Good luck, Garyn and may God go with you.’

  Garyn thanked him and left the house, all the time looking for Elspeth but there was no sign. Finally he rode back to the ruins of the forge, resigned to the fact she never wanted to see him again. His heart hurt but part of the pain was the fire that burned to get his brother back. All he had to do is get through the following day.

  ----

  The next day Garyn rode his horse to the manor. The field before the imposing building was alive with people and animals as servants loaded carts with supplies. A company of armed men were milling about, saying their goodbyes to loved ones while a row of chargers were being held by brightly coloured Squires, waiting for the Knights to arrive from the Manor.

  Flags of several houses were stuck in the ground and the air was full of excitement as they waited for the Lord of the manor to lead them to war. Garyn rode through the throng, looking for the stockman. Instead he found the Squire who had warned him off weeks earlier.

  ‘What do you want here, peasant?’ cried the Squire. ‘I think the latrines have already been emptied.’

  ‘I am here for the test,’ said Garyn.

  ‘What test?’ asked the Squire, ‘there are no tests today.’

  ‘Cadwallader himself promised me,’ said Garyn. ‘If I pass the test, then I can ride with you.’

  ‘Well as you can see,’ said the Squire, ‘our day of leaving has been brought forward. He has other things on his mind so I suggest you leave.’

  ‘I am going nowhere,’ said Garyn, ‘unless Cadwallader tells me himself.’

  The Squire scowled and turned to his comrade.

  ‘Hold this,’ he said and handed over the reins of the magnificent horse.

  ‘Listen boy,’ said the Squire, ‘either you leave now or I will pull you from this mule and beat you in front of all these people.’

  ‘I am going nowhere,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Then you will suffer the consequences,’ said the Squire and reached up to grab Garyn.

  Within moments both young men were fighting on the floor and were surrounded by cheering people. The Squire was obviously the better fighter but Garyn had the arm strength of a blacksmith and held his own.

  ‘Hold,’ shouted a voice and the circle opened up to reveal Cadwallader striding toward them. ‘What goes on here?’

  ‘I am here for the test,’ said Garyn, ‘but am denied by this gaudily clad jester.’

  The Squire lurched at him again but was held back by his comrades.

  ‘What test?’ asked Cadwallader.

  ‘You granted me an opportunity to prove myself,’ said Garyn, ‘as a lancer of your cavalry.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Cadwallader, ‘so I did.’ He looked around at the sea of expectant faces. ‘I am a man of my word,’ he said, ‘so you will be given your chance. Come with me, you too, Master Dafydd and bring a lance.’ The Squire shook himself loose and followed Cadwallader out onto the open field, picking up a lance from a soldier as he passed.

  ‘Someone bring me a target,’ shouted Cadwallader and as a servant ran over, the Lord of the manor turned to Garyn. ‘Mount your horse,’ he said, ‘and take the Lance from Squire Dafydd.’ Garyn did as he was told and the Squire turned to walk away.

  ‘Stop there, Squire Dafydd,’ said Cadwallader. ‘You too have a role to play.’ The two boys stared at him as he gave his instructions.

  ‘War is a serious business,’ he said, ‘and there is no place for braggarts or troublemakers.’ He looked at Garyn and Dafydd in turn.

  ‘You, Master Garyn, must learn that warfare is not an art to be learned on a whim, while you Squire Dafydd are too quick to cause trouble. I need men on this Crusade, not boys, men who can trust each other and, if necessary die for each other.’

  They all fell silent for a moment as the words sunk in.

  ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘what we will do is this. Garyn, you will ride to the end of the field. Squire Dafydd will stand here and hold the target.’ The servant handed Dafydd a round painted board the size of a man’s head. ‘That is your mark Garyn and you will have but one run. Miss the mark completely and you stay here. Pierce it and you will ride with us as a trainee, however, pierce any part of Squire Dafydd and you will suffer the same fate as him. Whatever wound he receives at your hand, you will receive from mine, even unto death.’ He turned to the Squire. ‘You sir, should know better. You are schooled in patience and chivalry yet still you are the cause of upset amongst your peers. During the trial you will hold the target upon your head. If you move, you will no longer be a Squire in my household but a kitchen boy, serving the farm hands while your comrades crusade alongside me. Now, this is the chance for both of you to redeem yourselves. Do you understand?’

  ‘But…’ started the Squire

  ‘I said do you understand?’ shouted Cadwallader.

  ‘Yes Sire,’ said both.

  ‘Then let’s get this done,’ said Cadwallader. ‘Garyn, ride out.’

  Garyn rode his horse to the far end of the field and turned around to see Dafydd standing in the middle of the field holding the target at his side. The crowd ran forward for a better view, forming a lane down which Garyn would make his approach. He swallowed nervously, he had expected a stern test but this was beyond anything he had imagined. During his training with Fletcher he had only been successful on two out of every three runs and the bucket they had used was twice the size of the target now held by Dafydd. This was going to be twice as hard and this time, two lives
were at stake, the Squire’s and his own.

  ‘Ready,’ called Cadwallader, lifting his arm in the air.

  Garyn lifted the lance in acknowledgement while Dafydd lifted the target onto his own unprotected head.

  ‘Begin,’ roared Cadwallader and brought his hand down sharply.

  Garyn swallowed nervously before taking a deep breath.

  ‘One steady ride, boy,’ he said to the horse, ‘that’s all I ask.’ Without further ado, he kicked his heels into the horse’s side and galloped toward the Squire.

  ----

  Dafydd faced the horse as it thundered down the field toward him. His fellow Squires were watching in awe and though the thought of his head being split apart at the end of a lance was terrifying, the rejection of his comrades and dismissal from the his privileged path to Knighthood frightened him even more. He took a deep breath, tightened the grip on the target and closed his eyes.

  A few seconds later the target was smashed from his head and a cheer rose from the crowd, closely followed by a cry of concern. Dafydd opened his eyes and turned to see Garyn sprawled in the dust after being thrown from his horse at full gallop. He ran over and knelt beside Garyn and tapped him lightly on the side of his face.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

  Garyn opened his eyes and stared at the blurred image above him.

  ‘I think so,’ he said, ‘what happened?’

  ‘You lowered the lance after the impact,’ said Dafydd, ‘and the weight speared the floor causing you to be thrown off. A poor use of skill but one that is common to new riders.’

  Dafydd offered his hand and pulled Garyn to his feet as Cadwallader approached. Garyn’s face was covered with blood and the Knight pulled aside the boy’s hair to check the injury.

  ‘Your skull is intact,’ he said, ‘so no damage done.’

  Garyn stared at him but said nothing.

  ‘A target well hit,’ said Cadwallader, ‘now, if you two don’t mind, we have wasted too much time.’

  ‘But what of me?’ asked Garyn.

  Cadwallader turned to the Squire.

  ‘Well?’ he said

  Dafydd nodded.

  ‘He has a lot to learn,’ said Dafydd, ‘but he will do.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cadwallader, ‘then get yourselves cleaned up. I have a crusade to join.’ He walked away to continue the preparations as the crowd dispersed.

  ‘Make way,’ called a voice and Garyn turned to see Reynolds leading the magnificent charger through the crowd.

  ‘I believe this belongs to you, young sir,’ he said.

  Garyn looked up at the magnificent beast in awe. The horse’s eyes were bright and the ears twitched in interest at the sounds around him. The stock man had also supplied a simple horse blanket as well as a basic saddle and reins.

  ‘Is he well?’ asked, Garyn, smoothing his hand down the animal’s muscular neck.

  ‘As well as he can be,’ said Reynolds. ‘Take it easy but by the time you get to Palestine, he will be as strong as ever. Treat him well, Garyn and he will become your greatest friend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Garyn and waited until the crowd had gone back to their business. He spoke quietly to the horse, letting the animal get used to his smells before leading him over toward the activity before the Manor.

  Finally the group was ready to go and the armed men stood at the front of a small column of carts filled with supplies. Garyn had mounted Silverlight and waited for the command to ride. Cadwallader rode down the column and stopped beside him.

  ‘An excellent display, Master Ruthin,’ he said before glancing down at the parcel laid across the boy’s lap. And what is this?’

  ‘My father’s sword, Sire.’

  ‘Can you use it?’

  ‘Not yet but I will learn.’

  ‘You will have to,’ said Cadwallader, ‘and quickly for I cannot carry baggage.’

  ‘Like you said, Sire, I am no Knight and never will be. I will learn or die.’

  ‘Still, it is a shame you have no instructor.’

  ‘He does now,’ said a voice and both men turned to see a hooded man ride from within the courtyard.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Cadwallader.

  The man removed his hood.

  ‘Brother Martin,’ said Garyn. ‘I thought you had long departed this place.’

  ‘I did,’ said Brother Martin, ‘but returned to pay a debt. I wronged your father and cannot repay him but I can pay you in his name.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By accompanying you to the Holy-land,’ said Brother Martin. ‘On the way I will teach you the skills of war and the way of the brotherhood.’

  ‘I cannot carry baggage, Monk,’ said Cadwallader.

  ‘I can pay my way,’ said Brother Martin and reached inside his cape before tossing over a purse of coins. ‘This is for my passage and when I am there, I will fend for myself.’

  Cadwallader felt the weight of the purse.

  ‘Gold?’ he asked

  ‘Silver,’ said the Monk. ‘I am a man of very few needs.’

  Cadwallader nodded.

  ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Master Ruthin, it seems you have got yourself a Squire.’ Cadwallader rode off leaving Garyn to stare at the Monk.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Garyn.

  ‘I know,’ said Brother Martin, ‘but I want to, for my own sanity.

  Garyn nodded and they both looked up as the column started to move.

  ‘This is it then,’ said Garyn, ‘the path is opened before us.’

  Before Brother Martin could answer, a voice rang out across the field.

  ‘Garyn,’ it echoed, ‘wait.’

  Garyn spun Silverlight around and saw Elspeth running down the slope toward him. Behind her, he could see her father standing at the forest edge. Garyn spurred the horse and galloped toward her before jumping off and sweeping the girl into his arms.

  ‘Elspeth Fletcher,’ he said eventually, staring into her eyes, ‘I thought you were lost to me.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Garyn,’ she said, ‘I did not know my own mind. I thought you were abandoning me but now I see your task is a noble one and if I were in your shoes I would surely take the same path.’

  ‘It is but a temporary state of affairs,’ he said, ‘and I promise you I will return within the year.’

  ‘I will wait for you, Garyn,’ she said, ‘I swear. Not one year but two. Take care, Garyn and bring your brother home.’

  Garyn leaned forward and kissed her for the first time and though her father looked down from the hill above, he lowered his eyes at the inappropriate gesture.

  ‘Be safe my love,’ said Elspeth stepping back. ‘I will pray for you every night.’

  Garyn watched her run back to her father and blew her a final kiss before mounting his horse and riding to join the column. As the pace slowed to cross a bridge he found himself alongside Squire Dafydd as they each waited their turn.

  ‘So,’ said Garyn, ‘are we alright?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Dafydd. ‘Like I said, you have a lot to learn but your skill with the lance was impressive. Not many novices could have hit that target off my head and I will admit to having my eyes closed at the point of impact.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Garyn, ‘so were mine.’

  Leaving the Squire open mouthed he spurred Silverlight forward and joined Brother Martin at the front of the column. His Crusade had begun.

  ----

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Port of Messina

  Italy

  Garyn and Dafydd walked through the port, fascinated by the buzz of activity around the moored fleet. They had been travelling for almost a month, first by ship across the channel to Calais and then by horseback, down through France to Marseilles on the Mediterranean coast. On the way their party had joined with other crusading groups until over a thousand men at arms reached Marseilles. The combined lords had paid a handsome price for a fleet of Merchantmen to carry them
to the Holy-land. Forecastles had been added to the ships as defensive positions and they had sailed without incident to land in Messina days earlier. Cadwallader took the opportunity to resupply the ships and ordered his men to spend time ashore, before the fleet embarked on the final leg to Acre.

  ‘Another few days,’ said Dafydd, ‘and we will set foot in the Holy-land.’

  ‘Your eagerness is impressive,’ said Garyn.

  ‘I am indeed eager,’ said Dafydd, ‘it is the dream of all Knights to serve the lord against the infidel so why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You are no Knight,’ said Garyn, ‘at least, not yet.’

  ‘No, I have three years left in service,’ said Dafydd, ‘but out here, opportunity can fall at the feet of a man and a Squire can be elevated to Knighthood earlier than expected.’

  ‘What sort of opportunity can cut short service?’

  ‘An act of bravery worthy of a Knight,’ said Dafydd. ‘All I have to do is carry out such a feat and I could well be endowed with the honour before my time.’

  ‘Why are you in such a hurry?’

  ‘It is my calling,’ said Dafydd. ‘My father’s line were all Knights and my ancestors fought at Hastings. I was apprenticed to the house of Cadwallader at the age of ten and served the Lordship’s table as page before taking the mantle of Squire. It is the true path of every Knight but I am impatient and want to carry my family’s coat of arms into battle.’

  ‘Do you not fear death?’

  ‘I fear only the manner of the falling,’ said Dafydd. ‘To die in battle is a noble end and a chivalrous death ensures quick passage to our Lord’s glory.’

  ‘But what about the pain?’

  ‘If pain is the price demanded then that is what I will pay.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a dead man?’

  ‘Who hasn’t? These are hard times, Garyn. Starvation and disease take many at home and brigands are hung regularly at the crossroads outside his Lordship’s estate.’