Christian Cameron: The Ill-Made Knight

The old man — hah, twenty years younger than I am now, but everyone looks ancient when you are fifteen — looked at John and handed him his bow.

‘Just bend it,’ he said. ‘And don’t loose her dry or I’ll break your head.’

John took the bow which, to me, looked enormous — the middle of the bow was as thick as my wrist. It was a proper war bow, not like the light bows I’d shot. A good war bow of Spanish yew was worth, well, about as much as a fine rondel dagger.

John took it, tested the string, and then he took up an odd posture, almost like a sword stance, pointed the bow at the ground and raised it, drawing all the while.

He didn’t get the whole draw. I was no great archer, but I knew he should have pulled the string to his cheek and he only got it back to his mouth, and even then he was straining. He grunted, exhaled and let the string out gradually.

‘Too heavy for me, master,’ he confessed.

The old man took an arrow from his belt and turned to face the butt. He took his bow back the way a man might receive his wife back from a guardian at the end of a long trip. His right hand stroked the wood.

Then he seized the grip, pointed the bow down as John had, lifted it and loosed his arrow in one great swinging motion. His right hand went back almost to his ear, and the arrow sang away to bury itself in the butt — it was no great shot, yet done so effortlessly as to show mastery, just as a goldsmith or cordwainer might do some everyday craft so that you’d see their skill.

An armourer once told me that any man might make one fine helmet, but that a master armourer made one every day just as good.

At any rate, the master archer watched his arrow a moment. ‘You know how to shoot,’ he admitted to John. ‘Have your own bow?’

‘No,’ John confessed.

The old man nodded. Spat. ‘Armour?’ he asked.

‘No,’ John said.

‘Sword?’ he asked.

‘No.’ John was growing annoyed.

‘Buckler?’ the old man pressed on.

‘No!’ John said.

‘Rouncey?’ the old man asked. ‘I am only taking for a retinue. We ride.’

‘No!’ John said, even more loudly.

The old man laughed; it was a real laugh, and I liked him instantly. He laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. ‘Then you shall have to owe me your pay for many days, young man,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll buy you a cup of wine, then we’ll go and find you some harness.’

‘I’d like to come to France,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Can you pull a bow?’ he asked.

I hung my head. ‘Not a war bow,’ I admitted. ‘But I can fight.’

‘Of course you can. God’s pity on those who cannot. Can you ride?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

That stopped him. He paused and turned back. ‘You can ride, boy?’ he asked.

‘I can joust. A little,’ I admitted. ‘I can use a sword. My father was a knight.’ The words came unbidden.

‘But you have no gear.’

I nodded.

He looked at me. ‘You are a big lad, and no mistake, and if your hair is any sign of your fire, you’ll burn hot. I misdoubt that my lord will take you as a man-at-arms with no arms of your own, but you look likely to me. Can you cook?’

Here I was, being measured as a potential killer of men, and suddenly I was being asked if I could cook. I could, though.

‘I can cook and serve. I can carve. I know how to use spices.’ I shrugged. It was true enough.

He reached into his purse and handed me flint and a steel. ‘Can ye start a fire, lad?’

‘I could if I had dry tow, some bark and some char,’ I said. ‘Only Merlin could start a fire with flint and steel alone.’

He nodded and pulled out some charred linen and a good handful of dry tow.

I dug a shallow hole with my heel because of the wind and gathered twigs. I found two sticks and made a little shelter for my bird’s nest of fire makings, and laid some char cloth on my nest of tow. Then I struck the steel sharply down on the flint, with a piece of char sitting on the flint. I peeled minute strips of metal off the face of the steel with the flint — that’s really what a spark of metal is, as any swordsman can see, just a red-hot piece of metal, too small to see. A few sparks fell on my charred linen and it caught. I laid it on my nest and blew until I had flame, and laid the burning nest on the ground and put twigs on top.

The old man put out my fire with one stomp of his booted foot. ‘Can you do it in the rain?’ he asked.

‘Never tried,’ I admitted.

‘I like you,’ he said. ‘You ain’t a rat. Too many little rats in the wars. If I take you to France to help cook, you’ll still get to France. Understand me, boy?’

‘Will I fight?’ I asked.

He smiled. It was a horrible smile. ‘In France, everyone fights,’ he said.

So I went to France as the very lowest man in a retinue: the cook’s boy.

It’s true. In Italy, they still call me Guillermo le Coq — William the Cook. It’s not some social slur. When I started fighting in Italy, I was riding with men who could remember when I was their cook’s boy.

Because in France, everyone fights.

We’re almost to Poitiers, so hold your horses. I went and said goodbye to my sister. She wanted to be a nun, but we were too poor — convents required money for women who wanted to take orders — and the Sisters of St John, the women who served with the knights, were very noble indeed, and didn’t take women without more quarters of arms than my sister would ever be able to muster. But they were good women, for all that, and they accepted her as a serving sister, a sort of religious servant. It was low, but so was the rank of ‘cook’s boy’. I was lucky I wasn’t visibly branded a thief; she was lucky she wasn’t spreading her legs in Southwark five times a day. And we both knew it.

Before I saw her, the lady of the house came in person. I gave her my best bow and the sele of the day, and she was courteous. She spoke beautifully. She was the daughter of one of the northern lords, and she spoke like the great aristocrat she was.

‘Your sister has been grievously miss-used,’ the lady said.

I kept my eyes down.

‘She has a real vocation, I think. And my sisters and I would, if certain conditions were met, be delighted to accept her.’ She honoured me with a small smile.

I bowed again. I was a convicted felon and my sister was a raped woman. A gentleman knows, but among peasants, rape is the woman’s fault, isn’t it? At any rate, I had the sense to keep my mouth shut.

‘It is possible that you will, ahem, improve yourself,’ she said, her eyes wandering the room. ‘If that were to happen, with a small donation, we would be delighted to accept your sister as our sister.’ She rose. ‘Even without a donation, I will make it a matter of my own honour that she is safe here.’

I bowed again.

The lady’s words — and her unsolicited promise on her honour — are probably what prevented me from murdering my uncle on the last night I was in England. Before God, I thought of it often enough.

Her suggestion fired my blood and helped set me on the road to recovering from the darkness that surrounded me. Remember, gentles, I had lost my girl, my sister’s honour and my own.

I had nothing and I was nothing. Brother John was right: I’d have been a sneak thief in days.

But the lady gave me an odd hope, a sense of mission. I would take a ransom in France and buy my sister grace.

My sister had recovered some in three days. She was sorry to see me go, but truly happy to be staying with the sisters, even as a servant. She managed to embrace me and wish me well, and gave me a little cap she’d made me of fine linen, with the cross of her order worked into it. She saved my life with that cap. It may be the finest gift I ever got. At the time, I was so happy to hear her speak without whimpering that I paid it no heed.