Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Lucas flinched from his gaze. Gorka’s green-brown eyes suggested a capacity for infinite malice. He lurched towards the door with a wrestler’s gait and Lucas followed, resolving to keep his mouth shut.

The armoury was the next stop — a hall surrounded by a warren of bays and alcoves exuding the odours of leather, iron and wax. A one-legged veteran and three assistants presided over the martial emporium. The armourer, propped on crutches, sized Lucas up and said something. An assistant rummaged in one of the bays and brought back a heavy quilted jacket that had seen better days. On it he placed a battered iron helmet with an aventail of boiled-leather lappets that gave some protection to the neck. He also produced a pair of knee-length leather boots. Lucas was disappointed. He’d dreamed of receiving a bodice of mail or, even better, a coat of lamellar armour.

Gorka read his mind. ‘Forget it. You’d still be paying off mail or scale by the time you retire. The only way you’ll come by decent armour is by stripping it off the enemy.’

The armourer’s assistants had disappeared into the bowels of the depot. One came back with a short recurved bow, a canvas case and three coiled bowstrings. The second with a lance and two javelins. The third with a shield and sword.

Gorka picked up the bow. ‘Ever used one of these?’

‘Not a bow shaped like that.’

‘It’s Turkish, designed to be shot from horseback.’

Lucas opened his mouth.

So did Gorka. ‘Got something to say?’

‘I wasn’t expecting to be deployed as an archer. The Normans don’t — ’

Gorka was chest to chest with him in a flash. ‘We don’t fight like Normans. Every man in our squadron must be skilled with sword, bow and lance.’

‘Sir.’

‘No need to “sir” me. Call me “boss”.’

‘Yessir… boss.’

Gorka demonstrated how the bow fitted into its case. ‘You keep the cover waterproofed with wax and tallow.’ He patted a pocket on the side. ‘Strings go in there. No excuse for a limp bow or slack string.’

The armourer took hold of Lucas’s right hand, examined the thumb and emptied a box of curious-looking horn rings onto the counter. A projection stuck out from the thick bands, curved on one side, flat on the other. He selected one and twisted it onto Lucas’s thumb. Too large, apparently, the next too small. He tried three more before finding one that fitted neatly behind the first thumb joint.

‘Your archery instructor will show you what it’s for,’ said Gorka. ‘Don’t lose it.’

Lucas regarded the scabbarded sword, the haft wrapped with scuffed and sweat-stained leather, the pommel a roughly worked iron finial. He looked for permission to handle it, and when Gorka nodded, he drew the blade. A workaday weapon that had seen a lot of use, the metal pitted and nicks along both edges. Even so, he grinned as he angled it to the light. He took up the circular shield, leather-covered on a wicker base, the front painted with a white falcon on a field of green. It looked magnificent. He fitted his hand in the grip and took guard.

‘You keep your equipment spick and span,’ Gorka said. ‘Centurion Josselin holds a weekly inspection and woe betide if you fall short. You can start by polishing your helmet. And I see some of the stitching on the corselet is working loose. And those boots could do with a polish. Pick your kit up later. Now we’ll see about a horse.’

‘Why isn’t Aiken with us?’ Lucas asked on the way to the stables.

‘Trooper Aiken’s outfit was sent on ahead.’

Of course. Vallon would have supplied Aiken with brand-new equipment at his own expense, all of the best quality and of Aiken’s choosing. The sour thought dissolved as Lucas approached the stables. Please God, he prayed, don’t let them give me a broken-down nag.

The chief groom led them between two lines of stalls, Lucas breathing in the peppery scents of horse flesh, dung and tack. He hardly knew where to look. There wasn’t a horse in the stable that he didn’t admire. The groom stopped at a stall housing a dappled grey gelding. One look at its head, its full, intelligent eyes, and Lucas knew he hadn’t been given second best. He looked over the stall and uttered a sort of moan before turning with shining eyes.

‘For me?’

Gorka sniffed. ‘The general says you’re not a bad rider. His name’s Aster. He’s five years old. Treat him well.’

Lucas stroked Aster’s muzzle and murmured his name. The horse blew in his face and his heart brimmed over. He spoke to cover his emotions. ‘Do the officers ride stallions?’

Gorka snorted. ‘Our horses are our friends. Unlike the Normans, we don’t want to be forever fighting the brutes.’

On the walk back to his quarters, Lucas summoned up the courage to ask a question. ‘Sir… boss… can I visit the stables in my free time?’

Gorka glanced at him. ‘Free time? You won’t see any of that, laddie.’

If that day was anything to go by, he was right. Lucas fell into bed long after the other troopers had given up their games, having spent an hour with his Greek tutor and two hours polishing his sword and helmet. Aiken slept next to him and over his bed hung a magnificent suit of armour.

‘I could help you with your Greek,’ Aiken said.

Lucas stirred from a doze. ‘I can manage.’

‘Do you like your horse?’

‘He’s not bad,’ Lucas said. ‘Better than I expected.’

‘Hero bought him for you.’

‘Hero? Why would he do that?’

‘He’s kind. He’s the main reason why I decided to come.’

Lucas sank back. ‘Do you know what we’re doing tomorrow?’

‘They’re going to test our weapon skills.’ Aiken shivered. ‘I’m dreading it.’

After reveille and ablutions, Aimery inspected his unit before they headed for the mess hall and a breakfast of millet porridge, wheat bread and watered wine. Then they swept and scrubbed their quarters under Gorka’s merciless scrutiny.

‘Bring your weapons,’ he said. ‘Today I’ll find out how much grief you’re going to cause me.’ He led the way to the exercise ground and halted in a space surrounded by dozens of other soldiers practising their martial skills. ‘First, a sparring session with practice swords.’ He frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’

Lucas knew he was taking a risk. ‘I’ve already been tested against Aiken and trounced him. I should face a sterner match.’

Aiken reddened under Gorka’s scrutiny. ‘It’s true.’

Gorka turned to Lucas with a dreamy smile. ‘So you fancy yourself as a swordsman.’

‘General Vallon himself said I showed promise.’

Gorka allowed himself a moment of malign speculation before scanning the arena. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Sergeant Stefan, I wonder if you could spare a moment.’

A hard-bitten little Serb wandered up, practice sword resting over his shoulder. Gorka cocked a finger at Lucas. ‘Our new trooper thinks he needs tougher opposition than his spear-companion can offer. Perhaps you’d oblige.’

Stefan smiled a pleasant smile and raised his sword. Lucas took guard.

A blur of movement and he was looking cross-eyed down Stefan’s blade, the point arrested a few inches short of his throat.

‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said.

Gorka laughed. ‘All Stefan’s opponents would have said that if they were still alive to speak.’

Again Lucas took guard. Stefan crooked his brows in enquiry. Lucas nodded and shifted from foot to foot. This time he almost made contact with Stefan’s sword before the blade threatened his head again.

He skipped back. ‘It’s not a style I’m used to.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Gorka. ‘Not his style.’ He lowered his head and shouted into Lucas’s face. ‘The enemy doesn’t ask what style of swordplay you prefer before engaging in combat.’ He smiled his evil smile. ‘Still, the lad’s young. Sergeant, let him fight the way he’s used to.’