Michael Jecks - City of Fiends

He dismounted with relief. They had spent much time in the saddle in the past two days, but their sweep across the country had been successful. He had added three carts of booty to the ones he had taken from the Bishop’s party, and gold and silver rattled merrily wherever they rode.

‘Ulric, come with me,’ he said.

Later, he would wonder if there had been some divine interference in that. He did not know why he called to Ulric to join him, it was a mere whim. But Sir Charles of Lancaster was nothing if not religious, and later events would make him wonder why the fancy had struck him.

Ulric walked along behind him. He still did not look like a warrior, but there was a sullen pugnacity about him that Sir Charles rather liked. Like a cur, whipped, but still loyal and ever hoping for a display of affection.

‘You have never killed a man, have you?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘No.’

‘The first time, it is quite hard. I was fifteen when I had to kill my first – a Scot who was riding into my Lord’s lands to steal cattle. I remember him still, a foul-faced man with a black beard. I struck first because I knew if I didn’t, he would kill me. So I drew, and with God’s aid, I managed to stab him. He died. It took me some time to stop shaking. The next time, I was in a line with companions, and that was easier. It was a cruel war, that, but we won over. The Scottish are always ferocious fighters, boy. If you meet with them, you strike first.’

‘Will I live long enough?’ Ulric said directly.

Sir Charles had not expected him to be so forthright. The fellow’s manner had led him to anticipate an unwilling obedience, as from a serf forced to work an extra week on his demesne lands.

After a moment’s reflection, he said, ‘If I learn you are seeking to harm us, I will destroy you without compunction. But if you are true to me, I will deal with you honourably, and you will share in my largesse. I am an old-fashioned man: I believe that those who are loyal should be cherished by me. If you are faithful, so too shall I be.’

Ulric nodded, and Sir Charles walked in front as they crossed the threshold into the hall.

It was a large room, with a tall ceiling, and a fire ready-made on the hearth. A dais at the far end of the hall held a large table and chairs, while benches and trestle tables sat at the walls. Sir Charles wandered about, looking at the room with a twisted smile on his face.

‘The tapestry will be taken,’ he said. ‘I like hunting scenes, and the colours here are superb. The hart held at bay – it will look splendid in my own hall.’

‘Where is your hall?’ Ulric asked.

‘I have none yet. I used to have a manor in Lancaster, and served my lord at the Scottish March, but I trust that when the King is returned to his throne, he will allow me a manor of my own. A small place near Bexley, that would be good. Close to London, but in the country. He has many little manors about there. And then I could live out my days in peace. You could join me, Ulric, hey? You and some few of the men here. I have always intended to set my lance in a rest and take up the sport of politics at some point. Perhaps when the King is returned, that would be my cue?’

He laughed then, an easy chuckle as he walked along the dais, his hand brushing the tapestry – and it was as he was past the scene of the hart that Ulric saw it.

There, at the point where the tapestry ended, he spotted the tip of steel, and he shouted as he flung himself at the weapon.

For a long time afterwards he asked himself why. Sir Charles was a fierce creature who would slay any man without remorse, wild and untameable as a boar, and yet Ulric threw himself forward and wrested the arm away from the knight’s back before the blow could fall.

It was a servant of the manor, a young lad, scarcely old enough to shave, and he fought with despair rather than skill, flailing with his hands and a dagger, and Ulric felt its edge mark his forearm before he grabbed the fellow’s wrist and clung to it with grim determination, while his face was buffeted by the other fist.

Sir Charles turned with a stunned expression to see Ulric rolling on the floor, grappling with the boy. Then he drew his sword and thrust quickly.

‘Ulric, give me your hand,’ he said, and helped him up. Then he grinned, holding Ulric’s hand in his fist so that it was raised before both their faces. ‘From hereon, you are mine. I will protect you as you have protected me. We are handfast, my friend.’

Saturday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist 4

Paffards’ House

Old John the bottler tested the cask and found that it was quite empty. Lifting it from its chocks, he rolled it along to the passageway and thence out past the kitchen, the dairy and the brewing room to the yard behind, where he left it, rocking gently on the paving stones by his storage room, while he fumbled for his keys.

The door opened to a dark, cool chamber. Underfoot, the floor was planks of wood, and up ahead were the two large barrels of ale. Both had the expensive metal bands about them, while the smaller casks of wine were like his little one here, bound with woven willow to hold the wooden staves together, and watertight. He brought the empty cask inside and set it beneath the tap on the left-most barrel, opening the tap to fill it. It held a pair of gallons or so, and he stood there for a few moments, watching the ale drool into the cask. It was a wonderful sound, a lovely sight and smell. He turned off the tap and pressed the bung back into place, slamming it home with the heel of his hand, thinking how useful this little room had been to him. Then, rolling the cask away, he noticed a small pool of ale that had stained the floor beneath the barrel, and he tutted. He didn’t want it to seep below the floor and make the chamber stink. That was a sure way to attract rats.

Rolling the cask out, he shut and locked the door, reminding himself that he must be more careful in future.

Taunton, Somerset

At the castle gates, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stood a moment, pulling on his gloves and adjusting his sword-belt before preparing to mount his horse.

‘Feeling stiff, Baldwin?’

‘I’m not so old as that,’ the knight growled. He set his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself up with a grunt. ‘But I confess, the thought of my own bed is most attractive.’

Sir Baldwin was a tall man. His chest was broad, and while his eyes were kindly and brown, there was a scar on his cheek that spoke of his youth when he had been a warrior-pilgrim defending the city of Acre in the last days of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He wore an unfashionable, neatly trimmed beard that followed the line of his jaw, but where once it had been black, now that he was in his middle fifties it was liberally salted, like his hair. Although he looked most unlike a modern knight, with his faded green tunic and tatty cloak, he was comfortable in himself. He had never had much patience with fads and fashion.

His friend, Simon Puttock was a tall, lean man of forty years, with dark hair and a rugged face. His grey eyes had always looked out on the world with confidence, but the last years had hit him hard.

Puttock had recently returned to his old family home near Crediton, and was coming to terms with his newly straitened circumstances. His skin was leathery from hours in the open air and on horseback, but the lines of anxiety Baldwin had noticed earlier in the year were steadily being replaced with those of laughter. It was good to see that.

‘HAH! YOU READY, THEN?’

Both Baldwin and Simon winced at the booming voice of Sir Richard de Welles, a jovial companion, built like a bear, with appetites and voice to match. The man had the appalling habit of telling lewd jokes at full volume, no matter what the company, and it was all but impossible to embarrass him.