Son of the Night

by Mark Alder

  ‘What’s it say in the Bible?’

  ‘Turn the other cheek,’ said La Cerda.

  ‘An eye for an eye appeals more to me. Or two eyes for a tooth.’

  The crossbowman spoke in French.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Charles smiled. ‘De nada. He turned to La Cerda. ‘That’s Castilian, isn’t it? It means “of nothing”.’

  2

  The Sire d’Ambret was drunk, as usual, but more than usually drunk.

  If there’s one thing the sire could do it was hold his beer. But his talents did not stop there. He could also hold his wine, sack, mead, and whatever other alcoholic concoction the rich country of France had to offer. However, having drunk roughly the weight of his horse since accepting the villagers’ entreaty to fight for them the night before, he was a little unsteady in his saddle. Three men who had entered the drinking contest with him were now missing – flat unconscious in two cases, hiding in a barn in another for fear the sire would find him and make him continue the competition.

  The village evening was pleasant; a low southern sun lingered on fields of gold, casting long shadows in front of him. No better season to be drunk in than autumn, he thought. The harvest in, the people in a mood for fun. Spring was good too. And summer, even the hungry month of July. Drinking warmed the bones in winter too. In fact, the sire had difficulty envisaging a situation, weather condition or time of day that could not be improved by inebriation. His horse moved gingerly, as if its short association with its rider had been enough to make it realise that any faster movement would result in a painful grab on the reins.

  ‘Where is the varlet?’ said the sire in French that owed more to Hackney in London than it did to anywhere in France. He smiled, burped, and effortlessly fell from his saddle.

  ‘Varlets, not varlet. You are defending us against three of them and you’re drunk!’

  At the head of a small band of rough and shoeless serfs, stood a tall and beefy young woman. This was Angry Aude, a woman who had come lately to the village, bringing outside manners and ideas. Though she said her prayers and was godly, some of her views would not have been out of place spoken by a Luciferian preacher. The aristocrats, she said, had a duty to the toilers of the fields and, if they did not fulfil it, they should be called to account.

  The sire looked up from the mud. ‘I take that as an insult, madam. I am always drunk but today I have surpassed myself. I am royally lashed. I’d have drunk the angel off his perch in St Denis. I’ve seen that angel, you know. At the side of the king.’ He raised a cup that wasn’t there and shouted, ‘I wager there have not been three men in history this plastered and standing.’

  ‘You’re not standing.’

  ‘As ever, the devil is in the detail. Keep me from devils, I am sick of their company. Years I laboured to raise them but I would gladly never see another one. Sorcerer no more. Knight valiant! Knight pure. Knight errant, a champion to all who will pay him or swive him!’

  ‘You took all our money!’

  ‘And I shall repay you by knocking this knight on the nut. I am the model of chivalry. After that, we may dally a while in your chamber, my lady. I’m sure you will grant me that indulgence once I have avenged the wrong, the details of which escape me.’

  ‘It’s not very chivalric turning up in this state to a matter of honour.’

  ‘I suggest, then, you have little experience of knightly combat. Most of the knights I’ve ever met make it a point of honour to turn up sozzled. It gives the other bastard a chance. And quells the fear. They are great ones for fear, knights, its summoning and conquering. Fear is a devil that lives in our breast seeking to master us.’ He smiled and was sick.

  ‘You can’t even sit on your horse. Lord Richard has been fighting since the day he was born.’

  ‘I am a master of modern warfare, lady. We do not charge on our horses no more, for fear of the English bows. The perfect gentle knight now fights afoot where the piercing shafts of the low men cannot make it through our armour.’

  ‘Well, Chevalier Richard fights on horse and you’ll have no chance against him one on one.’

  The sire tried to stand, leaning heavily on his scabbarded sword. He got as far as his knees.

  ‘I take that as a challenge,’ he said.

  ‘I’m behind you,’ said the woman.

  ‘So you are,’ said the sire, turning slowly, as if he feared the ground tipping if he moved too quickly.

  A commotion from the top of the village. Through the mean little huts a flash of coloured cloth brighter than ever a poor man could afford. Nobles.

  ‘Can you stand, even?’

  ‘Don’t let that bother you. Don’t fuss. When I best him, we’ll sell his armour back to him, along with his horse and you can . . . I’ve lost my thread. What was I saying?’

  ‘Oh no, here he comes. You’ll die too.’

  ‘I fought Hugh Despenser at Crécy,’ said the sire. ‘He was nine feet tall and had possessed the body of an angel and he’s dead now. I think I can manage one mortal knight.’

  ‘Three mortal knights.’

  ‘Three sets of armour and three horses to carry them. What ho, my lords, what ho! Fetch my shield from my mount, Aude, dear, do.’

  The woman went to his horse and unstrapped a fine shield. It was made of a light metal and bore the symbol of a Sacred Heart.

  Three good warhorses, fully caparisoned in colours of blue, red and gold, clopped to a halt ten yards in front of the sire, their breath heavy in the dying afternoon light. Behind them, on lighter horses, were six younger nobles, carrying the lances and helms of their masters. A party of servants, some armed, followed them on foot.

  The lead knight spoke. He was fully armoured and wore a surcoat of yellow chains surrounding a portcullis. This was the Chevalier Richard – a man who had come late to Crécy, seen the destruction, and gone quickly back to his lands.

  His voice was relaxed, nonchalant. He was used to such challenges – or was trying to show that he was.

  ‘You’re here, d’Ambret. I thought you might have the good sense to run away.’

  ‘Nah,’ said the sire. ‘Trust on anything, sir, anything, but my good sense.’

  ‘Have you come to apologise and retract your insult?’

  ‘To be honest, I find that I’ve forgotten exactly what I said. Something about you being a clapper-clawed son of shit, by the look of you.’

  The Chevalier bit his top lip, clicked his teeth and said, ‘You said I was a brute for enforcing my ancient droit de seigneur when my serf Aveline married.’

  ‘Ah yes, you got first go on her, so to speak.’

  ‘As I am allowed in law.’

  ‘Christ’s sweaty cock, I’m in the wrong game,’ said d’Ambret.

  ‘What is your “game”?’

  ‘Champion. Available to the rich, and to the good-looking poor such as my lady here. These serfs have paid me a sou to act revenge upon you. Two sous and a serving girl’s bed for the night and we’ll forget all about it. Three, and I’ll hold your horses while you serve revenge up on them.’

  ‘Revenge?’ said Aude, ‘after what he did to Aveline? He murdered her husband afterwards too!’

  D’Ambret was only slightly sick into his hand and considered that he had got away without anyone noticing.

  ‘I murdered no one. That thief robbed one of my noble guests!’ said Richard.

  ‘Liar!’ shouted Aude.

  ‘You robbed him!’ shouted another serf.

  Richard looked wary. Serfs did not speak like this to their masters.

  ‘So say I,’ said d’Ambret. ‘And invite you to prove me wrong on the field of combat or give us three sous.’

  ‘I won’t kill a drunk,’ said Richard. ‘Where’s the honour in that? Give him the money, Gerald.’

  ‘Sire, this man has insulted your honour!’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, boy,’ said d’Ambret. ‘I have met his sort in many taverns. They talk a good fight bu
t when the fists fly, so do they.’

  ‘You have to respond to that, sire!’ The young knight next to Richard looked as if his eyes would pop out of his head if his lord didn’t offer violence to d’Ambret forthwith.

  Richard sucked at his teeth.

  ‘Give him the money. We can be generous. These serfs are angrier than I thought but a few sous will buy their temper. Three sous – it is the price of their honour.’

  The young man flung three sous into the mud.

  ‘That’s a good price!’ shouted a serf.

  ‘Thanks,’ said d’Ambret. ‘But now I’m calling you a pelicanbuggering, pribbling, rump-renting, bear-biting flap dragon, a nut hook and a basket-cockle.’

  ‘I have never been insulted like that in all my life!’ said D’Ambret.

  ‘Not to your face, I expect. I bet you think your servants never piss in your soup either. Four sous to retract the first insult, five the second.’

  ‘The second wasn’t actually an insult,’ said one of the squires.

  ‘Swive yourselves, the set of you. How’s that?’ said d’Ambret, lifting up his long coat of fine mail to scratch at his balls.

  ‘You are a low man, d’Ambret, as I can tell by your words. You may have stolen arms from some sick knight but you will find it takes more than a fine shield and coat of mail to best me. Prepare yourself for Hell.’

  ‘Already been there. I’m not planning on returning.’

  ‘Get to your horse,’ said Richard, ‘I want to be back at my keep by nightfall.’

  ‘I won’t bother with the horse,’ said d’Ambret. ‘To be honest, I’m not much of a rider and I find using him in combat risks damaging him . . .’

  ‘This is a low man who has robbed one of his betters,’ said the knight to Richard’s right. ‘He deserves no respect of chivalry. Let me ride him down now.’

  Richard shook his head.

  ‘This pleasure shall be mine. As was that of Aveline. Know, serfs who live upon your masters’ generosity, you have gone too far in employing this low man. We do not allow you to till our fields and care for our cattle for nothing. Yes, you take an ample portion to feed yourselves but it is too much. When we ask for something back, your ingratitude bursts forth like the pus from a boil. When I have bested your “champion” here, I shall teach you a lesson you won’t forget.’

  D’Ambret wobbled to his feet as Richard took a lance from his squire and turned his horse away.

  ‘Hey, you’re not taking a run up are you?’ said d’Ambret. Richard did not reply.

  ‘That’s hardly fair,’ said d’Ambret. ‘Last chance for four sous. Actually, a total of four and five, that’s, er . . .’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Nine. I think.’

  The knight pulled down his visor, levelled his lance and charged.

  D’Ambret staggered slightly and drew his sword. It shone with the light of the dawn, though he held it limply, scraping it on the ground in front of him.

  Richard was undeterred, his horse bearing down at speed on his unsteady opponent.

  Aude screamed as the lance smashed into d’Ambret’s shield. His shield? Where had that been a heartbeat before? On the ground next to his feet. The lance shattered but the horse charged into d’Ambret, its pummelling hooves making the ground shake, its great chest hitting d’Ambret square at the gallop, its harness ripping a great gash in the knight’s plain surcoat. But it was as if the horse had run into a solid wall.

  The animal cried out and fell, throwing Richard hard to the ground.

  D’Ambert belched and weighed his sword in his hand.

  Then he walked over to the stunned knight and beheaded him.

  The other two knights and the men-at-arms cried out. ‘You gave him no chance to yield!’

  Another knight charged, the yellow billow of the horse’s caparison bright in the dying sun, its hooves making the firm summer turf a drum. D’Ambret, who had rather overbalanced when cutting off Chevalier Richard’s head, was facing the wrong way, disorientated from his stumble.

  The lance could have been no more than the length of a forearm from d’Ambret’s back when the shield spun him around, blocking the blow. The bright sword carved a crescent through the air, trailing sparks like a comet’s tail behind it, and the knight lost a leg, his armour providing no protection at all. The last knight drew up and ordered the men-at-arms to charge. There were six of them, armed with spears and maces. They advanced nervously towards d’Ambret.

  ‘Lads,’ he said, ‘my beef was with the nobles. You’ve no need to die here too.’

  ‘We are six,’ said one man.

  D’Ambret looked puzzled for an instant – he had counted at least twelve.

  ‘Go back to your wives.’

  ‘Advance!’ the remaining knight cried, and the men plucked up the courage to move, prodding forward with their spears.

  The bright sword was at d’Ambret’s side, the shield now on his arm. His mail lit up like gold in the dying sun. He would have struck an impressive figure if he had not been sitting down panting like a deerhound.

  ‘I’m blowing after that one fight,’ he said.

  The men came on. Again d’Ambret sat mooning at them, gazing up like a man waking from sleep.

  A spear prodded, a mace struck, but the shield was everywhere. When a lance did get through, it bounced off d’Ambret’s mail and broke. The drunken knight’s bright sword carved trails of sparks through the dusk, though the sire did not bother to stir himself from his sitting position.

  Two men-at-arms lay dead before the rest broke, jingling back to reform behind their knight.

  D’Ambret stood unsteadily.

  ‘Know this, men of wherever this is! I am the knight errant d’Ambret, wandering the land in search of truth, justice, money and a damn good seeing to. Send word to your neighbours, particularly the well-off ones, that I am available to hire or to fight. You will do one or the other with me.’

  ‘It’s beneath our dignity to trade with you,’ said the knight.

  ‘Then send your best fellows, caparisoned in their best armour, riding their finest horses, if there is any manhood in these lands. But tell them, for God’s sake, to fight on foot.’

  ‘Why ?’

  ‘I don’t want to risk damaging the horses. There’s two dead here and they could have been worth half a good farm each.’

  ‘You are a bandit,’ said the knight.

  ‘All men are bandits. Kings the worst.’

  ‘You defy holy God,’ said the knight.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.’ D’Ambret stood up tall. ‘No, actually, I have been His champion.’

  ‘And now ?’

  ‘Only my own.’

  The knight spurred his horse forward as if to charge again, but thought better of it.

  ‘Take your dead,’ said d’Ambret. ‘But leave their armour and weapons. I have won them by right.’

  ‘Strip them,’ said the knight. ‘And know that I will be back here with men who can defeat you. Champion, you call yourself. I call you sorcerer, for no man could do what you did here.’

  ‘You’ve clearly never met Montagu. He wouldn’t have been so kind as to let you leave.’

  ‘The Englishman ?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Is he? I’ll tell him next time I see him.’

  The men removed the armour of the corpses, while d’Ambret called for a drink.

  Angry Aude kissed him and hugged him. ‘You shall have the rest of your reward.’

  ‘Well, let’s go to. The sun is setting, though I know a curious cock who wakes to crow at the hour of dusk. I am talking about . . .’

  ‘I take your meaning, sir. Let’s go to. I hope you will not mind that I keep a fire until late, because the people will be in the mood to cheer your victory and buy my ale. My boy can serve while you and I indulge our sport.’

  ‘Lead on.’

  D’Ambret followed Aude into the dark interior of her house, where t
he bed lay in between the barrels of beer, so that she might keep an eye on them by night.

  The villagers came to drink and to talk and toast d’Ambret, while Aude’s boy served and the children of the village pawed at the magic shield. D’Ambret was a little too drunk – even for him – to persist beyond his first round of pleasure, and the celebrations were still in full flow by the time he fell asleep.

  By the time he opened his bleary eyes again most of the guests were gone – those who had not fallen asleep by the fire – and Aude’s son lay asleep across the bottom of the bed.

  ‘One more?’ said Aude. ‘I have never lain with a champion before.’

  D’Ambret yawned. He was still deeply tired, groggy from the smoke of the house, warm in the glow of drink and the delicious idea, the suggestion, the mad dream that another erection might be possible.

  ‘I am not a champion.’

  ‘You fought like a champion.’

  ‘I once summoned devils like a sorcerer but I am not a sorcerer. Well, maybe I am. More a sorcerer than a champion.’

  He felt content. He was never as happy as when drunk in the arms of a woman, particularly one of Aude’s comfortable figure.

  ‘A sorcerer ?’

  He didn’t really know if he was waking or dreaming now but he spoke anyway, seduced by the yeasty smell of Aude, the warmth of the house, the pleasant sensation of being drunk yet not plastered. He breathed in and smelled the ale of the barrel next to him. He loved ale, though he had drunk wine when at the court of King Philip. He’d never been happy there. They called ale ‘the lord of the soil’ and the soil was where he felt happiness, here among the snores of the peasants, Aude’s hand on his semi-interested prick.

  ‘Not a sorcerer.’ He felt the need to confide, to put aside pretence and be himself. ‘I am Osbert, pardoner of the Leadenhall Market, sorcerer to the French King through luck both good and bad. I tire of devils, though. I tire. It’s easier to be a fighter and be free of the influence of great men. There’s a living as a wandering knight and it’s a good one with such as you as the prize.’

  ‘Not easy to best the likes of Richard,’ said Aude.