Knight Assassin

by James Boschert

  “Before you came, your uncle was telling us of your life in the Holy Land. He said that you had been taken by the Saracen and lived among them for several years. Is that so?” Petrona asked, her voice a little high, but otherwise pleasant to hear.

  The accent was still something Talon was getting used to so he had to listen carefully, but he evaded the question with a demand. “Uncle, is there anything to drink here? I am right thirsty.”

  Philip laughed. “I shall call them over; I am not only thirsty, but hungry, too. Marcel, I trust you will drink some mead, but my Lady, will you have some wine?”

  Both nodded acceptance and there was a brief silence among the three younger ones as Philip bellowed for service. The innkeeper himself came hurrying over to serve such a distinguished guest. He bowed clumsily to them and stood to take the order, wiping his hands on his greasy, flax-linen apron. He promised to bring them the food prepared for the day, which he told them they would not find disappointing.

  Petrona would not be put off any longer. “Monsieur Talon, I am still waiting for your answer. Do you wish to keep me in suspense?’

  It was asked mildly enough but Talon sensed something there, as though she was used to getting her way, which made him cautious. “I was captured by the Saracen and taken to Persia, where I grew up. There is really nothing else to add. Uncle Philip, on the other hand, has been fighting the Saracen most of his life and can tell you many more stories about his adventures.”

  “Are they not heathens in all these countries and this Persia you talk about?” Marcel asked, sounding truculent.

  “They do not consider themselves heathen,” Talon replied mildly.

  “But they do worship another God, do they not?” Petrona asked.

  The last thing Talon wanted at this moment was to discuss the differences between the Christians and the Muslims. He cleared this throat. “I would like to talk about this some other time; perhaps we should hear about my uncle’s adventures?” He said this firmly enough to silence the discussion for a moment and then nudged his uncle. “Uncle Philip, tell our guests about your life as a Knight Templar.” He turned to the others. “The Templars are the true defenders of the faith in the Holy Land. My uncle has fought for them the length and breadth of the country.”

  His uncle laughed, but before he could respond the drinks arrived and then the food. Before they had even started on the food, Max walked into the room and made for their table. Introductions began again and a thankful Talon was able to sit quietly while the young man Marcel plied Philip with questions about his life as a soldier in Palestine. He was particularly interested in the battles that had been fought and, to Talon’s ears, not interested in the country at all. Talon ate his food in silence while the talk went over his head and let his thoughts wander again. They almost always came back to his time in Persia and his worry for Rav’an.

  He became aware that he was being watched. Petrona was watching him with frank appraisal as though assessing him with her blue eyes. He looked up and stared straight into hers. He smiled and was amused to see first surprise, then something else. It amused him to see a flush begin to rise at her throat. She smiled back almost tentatively; now he thought he saw an invitation there.

  He decided that the over-protective Marcel was not worth provoking, so he finished off his drink and stood up. Bidding the party goodnight, he pleaded the need for some fresh air before bed. He walked out of the room and onto the street and took a deep breath once he was outside the stuffy, smoky atmosphere of the inn. He felt restless, so he walked along the darkened street. The moon was just beginning to rise over the trees to the east, shedding its bright silver light on the deeply rutted road. His ears caught the sound of singing; it came from the second inn where the archers and the servants were billeted.

  He opened the rough wooden door and was confronted by the thick air and noise of a busy, crowded inn. At the back of the long room were the Welshmen, well into their cups and one of them, Anwl, was standing up, singing. The crowd of peasants, monks, and soldiers seated at rough-hewn tables all around sat quietly as he sang. The notes were clear and pure. They resonated off the low ceiling and reached clearly to the door where Talon stood watching.

  He walked in and shut the door. The sharp-eyed Gareth seated among the Welshmen stood up and beckoned him over. Anwl finished his song and there was loud applause. No one in the room had understood a single word, but they all appreciated a good singing voice. They banged their earthen mugs on the tables and demanded more wine—this was wine country after all. They also demanded more songs from these foreign men. Happy to oblige, the Welshmen gave them all they had.

  They greeted Talon as a friend and bade him join them in their drinking, and he did so. The entertainment continued as this man or that sang of his native land. The crowd loved the Welshmen most, however, and made the men stand up and sing, plying them with wine until they were gasping for air and too drunk to stand up. Talon found the wine to his liking and spent his time with Gareth and the couple who were sober, talking about their native land.

  Gareth could not get him to talk about himself, so instead he talked about his own homeland. He told Talon about the high, misty hills they came from. There were virtually no towns in Wales, he said. It was a forested, mountain world that few outsiders could find their way through. He talked about the wild tribes and the freedom they shared, although he remarked wryly they seemed to spend a lot of time quarreling amongst themselves.

  “We are true Christians these days,” he said, “not like those damned Saxons and Normans who swear by God and then break their word the very next day.”

  “Why did you go to Palestine?” Talon asked.

  “Because we are men of war and hoped to be able to gain much booty while there,” Gareth answered reluctantly. He took a long drink as though to wash the memories away.

  “We wanted to be soldiers of God, but we ended up as robbers and beggars,” Anwl, who was well into his cups by now, slurred.

  They all laughed uneasily, but it was clear that all they wanted to do now was to just go home. Palestine had not been a good experience for them.

  “I must come to your land one day,” Talon said, “but from what you say it is cold and very wet there. I’m used to the dry land and the heat. I might drown.”

  There was another roar of laughter at that.

  “You would be welcome to our land, young sir. We would be your host and take you to meet the prince.”

  “Are you then nobility that you can introduce me to your prince?” Talon asked skeptically.

  “In Wales any man can go up to the prince and demand audience, even be he a cattle-herder,” bragged another.

  “Then I would be honored,” Talon told them.

  The drinking continued and the songs became bawdy. The Welshmen were now the ones who did not understand anything. Talon had to admit to them that the language of the locals was impossible to understand and most of the jokes and songs went right over his head.

  He kept a clear head as he did not know the people in the inn and wanted to make sure the Welshmen were not going to be robbed. He saw Simon with the other servants over the other side of the room and signaled him to come over. “Watch that they do not get robbed tonight, Simon.”

  The man nodded and grinned. “I’ll keep an eye on them for thee, m’lord.”

  By this time hardly any of the Welshmen were able to sit upright so he told the servants to help them to bed while he paid the innkeeper. He warned the innkeeper not to rob the drunken men while they slept or he would be paying him a visit. The man looked into his eyes and nodded his understanding.

  He walked back in the moonlight to his own inn and found it quiet. Obviously the night life did not extend to this upper-class locale. There were still a few peddlers and merchants sitting at tables, but his party seemed to have all gone to bed. He made his way up to the room he was sharing with Philip. His uncle was fast asleep and snoring loud enough to shake the rafters. Talon lay
down on his pallet, pulled the blanket over his head to shut out the noise, and went to sleep.

  Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

  Who never to himself hath said,

  This is my own, my native land.

  Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,

  As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,

  From wandering on a foreign strand.

  - Sir Walter Scott,

  The Lay of the Last Minstrel

  Chapter 3

  The Homecoming

  Their party came the next day to the village named Ville de Moulle—which they had been told belonged to Sir Hughes—just as dusk was beginning to close in around them. They rode down the muddy, rutted road that ran between the low stone houses with their thatched roofs.

  There were the usual smells of a farming village. The stink of cow mingled with that of sheep and other stinks from the midden nearby. Talon was surprised to see no activity around the shuttered cottages and hovels that made up the bulk of the village. Dogs were not much in evidence either. The doors of all the houses were closed, which in itself was unusual for this time of year. People in these parts, Talon had already discovered, were wont to spend the summer’s evening light sitting at their doorways or standing around in small groups discussing the day’s events.

  Here no one greeted them and those few who saw them moved hurriedly out of sight as soon as they became aware of the horses and the footmen coming down the street. Even the sound of the farm animals seemed to be muted this still, warm evening. Talon had noticed that the further inland they travelled the warmer it seemed to become. Talon’s hand strayed to his sword belt and he adjusted it to make the handle of his weapon more accessible. He didn’t like what he was seeing; all his senses were awake. There was no welcome here.

  He glanced at Philip and Max, whose training as fighting men was also telling them something was not right and they were both looking sharply to left and right, alert for trouble.

  He looked back over Jabbar’s haunches at the Welshmen and caught Gareth’s eye. They understood each other; Gareth muttered something to his comrades. Without saying anything the archers took arrows out of their quivers and knocked them in their bows in readiness for trouble. Everyone became very watchful.

  They rode cautiously through the length of the village and out the other side without a single greeting. Philip looked back at Talon, who was riding just behind him, with a question on his face but Talon could only shrug and look around as they went out. He was glad that his uncle and Max, too, were worried about the reception they had received in the village; it wasn’t just his imagination.

  They rode another few hundred yards north, where tall trees towered over them, closing in on the track for a few dozen yards, then abruptly gave way to a rough pasture. Low, heavily wooded hills loomed over them in the dusk on the far side of a wide swath of grassland.

  Then they saw the walls of the fortress that Talon’s father owned. It was situated on a low rise in the middle of a large field with plenty of space between the walls and the surrounding forest; he estimated a good arrow-shot distance with a bow like those the Welshmen carried. Talon noted in the gathering dusk the base of stone with the high, wooden palisade on top. The structure was for the most part a mixture of stone for strength at the base, and thick wood for towers and overhangs. The walls were about fourteen feet high in total, and, as far as he could see, enclosed about an acre and a half of land. There were four high emplacements, like rough towers, on each corner. The gates that faced the village had a protected walkway above them that was higher than the surrounding wall and there were wooden buttresses on either side of the gates. It looked solidly built, but Talon had difficultly in making a firm judgment in the failing light.

  They had been seen, that was clear by the activity they saw on the walls. Talon could just see the dark shapes of men gathering on the ramparts and pointing at them. They rode closer, heading for the wooden gate. As they rode up there was a shout.

  “Halt where you are! Who travels at night? Name yourselves.”

  “It is Philip de Gilles and Talon, son of Hughes de Gilles. What kind of greeting is this?” Philip bellowed. He had not expected this kind of reception at all, and it showed in his tone.

  There was a startled silence and then a muttered conference on the wall. A short while later a man leaned over the wooden rampart.

  “Philip, is that really you? Who did you say was with you?”

  “Yes it is I, brother, and yes, I have your son with me. Open this confounded gate and let us in. I am right tired and could do with something to wash the dust from my throat.”

  There was an incredulous chuckle followed by a sharp command. The gate was opened slowly by two spearmen in patched leather jerkins and dented iron helmets, who knuckled their foreheads as Philip led the way into the bailey. He ignored them completely.

  They were surrounded by men holding torches on high that flickered and guttered in the now darkened evening. Talon dismounted from Jabbar and gave the reins to a complete stranger, who was about to lead him away, so he quickly snatched his bow out of the sheath as his long-standing habit of self-preservation took hold.

  Men peered at him from all sides, and then he was facing his father. He remembered him well, but was not prepared for the emotion that came with the greeting. Sir Hughes had just finished embracing his brother, shouting with delight, and then turned to look long and hard at his long-lost son. He seized a torch from one of the men and raised it high so that he could see more clearly. Like Philip had done those many weeks ago, he, too, peered at his son, looking for some feature that might tell him this was the boy he had known.

  He shook his head and gave a tentative growl. “Talon, is this really you?”

  Talon nodded, too overcome to speak, then cleared his throat. “Yes, Father, it is I, Talon.”

  His father faced him and tears began to pour down his bearded face. “My boy! My long-lost boy! It's been so long. We thought those heathens had taken you forever.”

  He handed off the torch and stumbled forward and the next thing Talon knew, his father was giving him a bear hug. To his surprise, he was as tall as his father. He returned the embrace with fervor, the emotion of the moment threatening to overwhelm him. They stood for a long moment, father and son, in front of the gathering crowd of servants and men-at-arms, while Sir Hughes wept unashamedly in front of everyone, his hands still gripping Talon by the shoulders.

  “Ah, my son,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with his sleeve as he stood back and looked at him. “You've become a man. Just look at you! We must tell your mother this instant or she will not forgive me for being so slow.”

  “Being so slow at what, my husband?”

  Talon had never expected to hear those gentle tones again. Then he was standing next to his father, facing his mother, who simply stood in place, staring back.

  She went white and seemed almost ready to faint. She murmured as though to herself, “Dear God, it's Talon,” with a certainty that surprised him. She swayed.

  Without thinking, Talon stepped forward and took her by the elbows to steady her. “Mother, I've come home,” he said gently, tears welling in his eyes.

  She gasped and continued to stare up at him. He stood, silently gazing back down at her. None spoke in the entire courtyard as they witnessed this extraordinary event.

  His mother came into his arms and he held her gently as though afraid to break her. But she clutched at him as though she was drowning. There was a cheer as the people gathered around gave vent to their emotions. They clapped and shouted greetings to Philip, while he and Sir Hughes gripped each other’s arms, happy beyond words to see one another.

  Both turned and watched the oasis of quiet where Talon and his mother, Marguerite, stood, oblivious of the noise around them. She was weeping into his chest while he murmured words of endearment; tears now flowed freely down his cheeks. They stood that way for long minutes, and then Marguerite
collected herself and pushed herself away, but still held onto him with a hand on his tunic. She wiped her tear-stained face with the hem of her apron and then took his hand in hers.

  “Hughes, we forget our manners.” She sniffed. “We have to remember ourselves and provide food and drink for these travelers. Your brother and our son have come back to us. The Dear Lord God in his mercy has given my son and Philip back to us, from so far away.”

  That said she led the way, still holding Talon by the hand, to the main buildings where at the doorway he saw a girl and two small children standing somewhat shyly, watching the events taking place in front of them.

  Sir Hughes shouted orders for meat, cheese, and drink to be brought to the main hall, and for all to come and take part. Philip introduced Max as his sergeant and then the Welsh archers, who bowed to Sir Hughes politely, remaining silent. He regarded them with interest, bade them welcome and to take part in the feast. Then he followed his wife and Talon with Philip, arms around each other.

  Talon’s mother stopped in front of the three figures at the main door to the hall. There was a girl of about eighteen years standing with a young boy of perhaps five years and girl who was about three, hiding just behind her, holding onto her dress. As they came up she looked Talon over curiously and patted the boy on the shoulder with her free hand as though to reassure him. Marguerite stopped in front of her.

  “Talon, this is your distant cousin, Aicelina, and the boy hiding behind her skirts is your younger brother, Guillaume. He is now five. Say hello to your elder brother, Guillaume. God be praised, he is back with us.”

  Talon nodded politely to Aicelina and smiled, which brought a dimple in response and a bobbed curtsey from the girl. He knelt on one knee and put out his hand to his new brother.

  Guillaume hid his head in Aicelina’s skirts shyly, peering out at this stranger who had suddenly come into his life. Talon smiled and kept his hand out. Guillaume reached out tentatively and touched the proffered hand, and then, as though ashamed of his shyness, stepped out of the shelter of the skirts and solemnly clasped Talon’s hand.