Holy Warrior (33 page)

There was a crack like a snapping twig, and a lightning strike of pain, and my sword was gone, and my right hand was canted at an awful angle. But when I turned to look at my flag-bearing opponent, I saw that he was flopping, stone dead, but still in his saddle, the sword embedded in his skull, as the animal slowed to a trot and then a walk. Wheeling round, tucking my mace into my belt and hugging my broken wrist to my chest, I came up to the dead knight’s horse and leaning over plucked the golden standard from its holder on his saddle with my left hand. I threw back my head and screamed, half in triumph and half from the pain that was shooting up my right hand with sickening intensity.

I raised the golden standard high in the sky with my left hand, and screamed again. I was alone on the battlefield, victorious, with the enemy standard, the repository of his honour in my hand; all the Griffons seemed to have fled or found hiding places in the darkness. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw movement. A horse was walking towards me, picking its way through the bodies, and on its back, in a blood-smeared scarlet and sky blue surcoat, was Sir Richard Malbête.

He stopped a dozen paces from me, and cocked his head on one side. We were completely alone in the dark camp, and all that could be heard were a few muffled shouts and screams away in the darkness. ‘Lost your sword, I see, singing boy,’ said Sir Richard. And he laughed, a low bubbling sound of sheer malice. ‘I think you’d better hand over that pretty little flag to me then.’

For some strange reason, I thought of Reuben, and the foreign words he had spoken in the battle at York.

‘Come and get it, you bastard,’ I said, gritting my teeth against the pain in my wrist. But Sir Richard, it appeared, was not even listening to me - he was leaning over and fiddling with something on the far side of his horse, seemingly hauling on something, a rope or leather strap, I supposed. Then he straightened up and smirked at me, ‘I shall,’ he said. And with a great lurch of my stomach, I saw that he was holding a cocked and loaded crossbow in his two hands, and pointing the weapon straight at my body.

He shot, the bolt blurred, and a blow like the kick from a horse smacked into my right side. I was knocked sideways out of the saddle by the force of the quarrel and I was only dimly aware of my shoulders hitting the hard ground before I slipped into a deep darkness.

Part Three: Outremer

Chapter Fourteen

Dickon’s wife Sarah came to see me last night. Her swineherd husband faces the manor court of Westbury tomorrow, if I choose to bring charges against him. If I wished I could even send him to a King’s court for the felony of theft. He would receive a grim penalty if found guilty by the King’s travelling judges; and his guilt would be easily demonstrated. Half a dozen witnesses have heard him boasting that he stole my piglets, witnesses who are my tenants, men whose families I could throw out into the street if I were displeased with them.

Sarah was shown into my hall by Marie, while I was sitting alone by the fire, long past dusk, with a mug of warmed ale in my hand. It was very nearly my bedtime but I threw off my tiredness when I saw her. The tears were streaming down her old face, and she threw herself on the rush-strewn floor in front of me, startling one of my deerhounds from its slumber. The dog gave her a mournful look and then trotted away to find a more peaceful place to sleep.

Her boots were crusted with snow, and her shawl was white-dusted too, and I wondered whether we were in for a very hard winter as I waited for her to speak. I called for the hall servants to throw another log on the fire, to bring a stool for Sarah to sit upon, and to bring another mug of ale.

Marie showed that she was angry at these small courtesies by banging dishes down hard on the long table as she cleared away the remains of supper. But I ignored her and said: ‘Get up from the floor, Sarah, and sit. Tell me what it is you want - why do you disturb my peace on this cold night?’

‘Oh sir, it’s my old fool Dickon. He is drunk again on Widow Wilkins’ strong mead, and cursing you something horrible, and he is ...’ she halted, and I encouraged her to continue. She took a sip of ale. ‘Oh sir, he is talking of slitting his own throat. He says you will send him to the King’s court and they will hang him ... and he vows he will not die that way. He says he would rather die by his own hand, like a soldier, and risk eternal damnation, than be hanged as a common felon. I tell him you would not send him to the judges, not for a piglet or two, and that it will just be the manor court and a fine. But he is mad, sir, and he sits in our cottage muttering and swearing foul oaths and drinking yet more and sharpening his knife. Oh sir, tell me you will not send him to the King’s court.’

‘He stole from me,’ I said, as coldly as I could manage. ‘He admits it. Year after year, he took my property and laughed while he robbed me. What would you have me do? There must be justice in Westbury.’

She broke down into another fit of violent sobbing that seemed to rack her very soul. And like the soft old fool that I am, I was moved by her tears. ‘Come, Sarah,’ I said. ‘This is no good. Go home now and tell Dickon that he must present himself to me tomorrow morning, sober and clean, and remorseful, and we two men will discuss this matter then.’

When the woman had gone, I went over to the big chest where I keep my most precious possessions and rummaging in the deepest recesses I found what I was looking for: an ordinary old sword in a battered leather scabbard. I pulled the blade from the scabbard and gazed down at the grey metal, my own tired face reflected back at me. How many men had I slaughtered with this weapon, I wondered - too many to count, surely. And yet it was an age-old symbol of justice; in the King’s hands it signified the power to kill in the name of the law. I made a cut in the air, just as an experiment, and the blade sliced cleanly through the drifting smoke of the hall; my right arm was unaccustomed to the weight of the sword, and my once-broken wrist gave a twinge, but it felt good in my hand. I cut again, and again, my feet moving smoothly in the old patterns, drummed into me by my old friend Sir Richard at Lea, as I lunged and parried, fencing with an imaginary foe.

‘What in the world do you think you are doing?’ said a sharp voice. It was Marie. ‘Put that thing away before you do yourself a mischief. You’re not twenty years old any more. Nor even twice that!’

For a brief moment, just a heartbeat, the Devil inspired me with a wild urge to strike down my daughter-in-law for those disrespectful words. For a moment, I honestly wanted to turn and hack at her neck and leave her twitching in a pool of blood. I saw myself clearly standing over her corpse, gory blade in hand, my body once again filled with the vigour of battle, the power of youth. And then I regained my senses, God be praised, and I slid the old sword back in its sheath, put it away and sat back down once again by the flickering fire.

Marie came over and draped a thick woollen shawl around my shoulders. ‘It’s cold tonight,’ she said kindly. But I did not deign to reply. I merely took another sip of my warmed ale. There was honey in it.

A bright strip of luminous yellow hovered in front of my eyes; an angel, perhaps, showing me the path to Heaven? Not an angel. And too painful to look at. It took me a very long while to recognise that it was hot sunlight, spilling on to a whitewashed wall. I closed my eyes. When I opened them the yellow strip had moved, and broadened at the base. Gradually I became aware of noises, too: the scurry of sandaled feet on stone; a gentle murmur of conversation; occasionally a cry of pain or the splash of liquid in a bowl. My mouth dry as sun-bleached bone, my tongue rough as a pine log, I closed my eyes again and slept.

This time when I awoke, there was someone leaning over me: dark glossy hair framing a white drawn face with huge sorrowful eyes. The strip of sunlight was now a block of gold on the wall, and I thought: evening. A cool wet cloth was applied to my forehead - it felt wonderful - and a little water was trickled into my mouth. A single word came into my head, a single beautiful, loving syllable: Nur.

She trickled more water between my parched lips, and I swallowed painfully, blinked at her and struggled to sit up, but a small white hand pushed me down with ease.

‘Where am I?’ said a harsh, croaking voice, which hardly I recognised as my own.

‘Shhh, my darling,’ said Nur. ‘Drink, don’t speak. You are in Akka, in the Hospitallers’ quarter, in a dormitory. You have been sick, very sick. But the fever has passed. You are safe now. I am here.’

‘Acre?’ I whispered, and Nur poured a little more water into my mouth. ‘Don’t speak; drink,’ she said. ‘Drink and sleep.’ Her lovely face went away and came back with a clay bowl filled with a bitter liquid. She guided the cool rim to my mouth, supporting my head, which strangely seemed to weight more than a boulder, and I sipped the rank liquid, and with some difficulty swallowed most of it down. The effort exhausted me, and I let my head flop back on to the pillow and dropped into a bottomless hole.

When I awoke again it was grey morning, Nur was gone. I turned my head and looked left and right: I was in a large cool stone chamber, in a bed in a row of similar ones, all but one occupied but sleeping men. At the far end of the row of beds, a large, plain wooden cross was fixed to the wall and below it an old man wearing nothing but a chemise sat upright on his cot; he was skeletally thin and almost totally bald; a mere few whisps of white hair covered his pink scalp. He saw that I was awake and smiled and nodded at me but said nothing. I smiled back and then looked away. My head felt clear: Acre, I thought; in the care of the Knights Hospitaller, a monastic order famed for healing the sick and fighting the paynim in the name of Christ. I was safe.

Shards of memory began to roll and tumble through my head; I remembered Sir Richard Malbête; his feral smirk as he shot me with the crossbow. And I recalled a tossing bunk in the belly of a foul-smelling ship, a great pain in my right arm, and a feeling as if my stomach were on fire; and raving, cursing at Reuben as he tended to my wounds, and trying to strike at him. And I remembered a large tent of white canvas on a windy hilltop, and the cries of wounded and dying men around me mingling with the shrieks of seagulls; and Robin’s eyes, filled with care, staring down at me and saying: ‘Don’t die on me, Alan, that is a direct order.’ And I remembered more pain, and the shame of vomiting and voiding myself uncontrollably - and Nur, always there; my sweet angel caring for me as if I was a baby, and washing my loins and limbs, and trying to feed me, and holding me tight when I thrashed in my fever. And most of all I remembered my beloved weeping for me. And how it made me want to die.

I must have slept again, for when I awoke it was full morning and Little John was standing at the foot of my bed, looking about ten feet tall and as wide as a house, suntanned, bursting with rude health and grinning at me. He was holding up a kite-shaped object; a stout wooden frame around thin, overlapping layers of wooden slats, faced with painted leather, round at the top and tapering to a point at the bottom. It was four and a half feet long, and nearly two foot across at its widest; a familiar image of a black and grey wolf’s head on a white background snarled at me from the front.

‘This,’ said Little John, rapping the object with his knuckles, ‘is a shield. It’s quite old-fashioned, but they built them to last in the old days. You are supposed to carry one of these when you go into battle. How many times do I have to tell you - all your fancy mincing around with sword and poniard is fine in a one-on-one fight, if you like that sort of thing, but in a proper battle you need a shield.’

He began speaking very slowly and loudly to me, as if to a child or an idiot: ‘If you carry a nice big shield, then nasty people won’t find it so easy to shoot you with their nasty crossbows.’ And he thumped the shield down at the foot of my bed. ‘I’ve also brought you another sword, since you seem to have lost yours. God’s greasy armpits, you youngsters, next thing I know, you’ll be fighting stark bollock naked!’

I wanted to laugh, but my stomach was still paining me, so I merely grinned back at him and said: ‘You are one to talk: I’ve seen you rip the shirt from your own back when the battle-fire is burning in you. Anyway, I’m not much good at using a shield ... don’t really have your craven skill at hiding from my enemies behind a piece of wood.’

He laughed. ‘Well, that is easily remedied. When you’re on your feet, I will teach you. Somebody has to. It looks like we’ll be here for a few weeks, so you’ll have plenty of time to get strong. But, I swear on Christ’s bones, Alan, if you go into a proper battle again without a shield - I’ll damn well shoot you myself!’ And he turned and stomped out of the dormitory.

The next day, when Nur had fed me some gruel and washed me from head to toe, Robin came to see me. He was holding a bunch of grapes somewhat awkwardly in his hands, and he seemed not to know what to say or what to do with the fruit. Finally he placed them on the small table beside my head, sat down on the bed and said: ‘Reuben says you must eat green fruit. Apparently, it is good for ridding the body of evil humours. Green fruit reduces the amount of bile - or is it phlegm? - it reduces something bad anyway.’

I thanked him for his gift and again there was a slightly uncomfortable pause. I noticed that he looked tired.

‘Well, you seem healthier,’ he said after a while, ‘almost human again, in fact.’ And he smiled, which lifted the lines of worry from his face. I told him that I was feeling much better but terribly weak. ‘Reuben was certain that you would die,’ he said, ‘and I was very worried - worried that I’d have to go to the trouble of finding myself another
trouvère.’
He smiled at me again and his silver eyes sparkled with something like their old mischief. ‘Reuben said that mending your wrist was the easy part,’ he continued - and I obligingly flexed my right wrist for him, which was stiff, skinny but mobile and had a fresh purple scar running up the forearm - ‘but the old Jew said the crossbow bolt in the belly would kill you, and when it didn’t, he was convinced that the fever you contracted after that would finish you off. I told Reuben, I told him, that you were made of strong stuff and that I didn’t believe a single raggedy Griffon crossbowman could put you in your grave but ...’ he tailed off.