James Aitcheson - Knights of the Hawk

‘Run,’ Robert shouted, and then when I did not move, he laid a firm hand upon my shoulder. ‘Now!’

But I would not leave without my weapon. I scrambled to retrieve it, closing my eyes and trying to keep the sickness from rising in my throat as I jerked it from the wound, feeling the flesh tear and the edge scrape against bone. Without pausing to clean the blood from it, I returned it to its sheath, and then I was on my feet again, only to meet Joscelina’s gaze. I’d all but forgotten her. Desperately she screamed for help, though of course there was nothing that could be done. Her voice and her eyes were filled with anguish the likes of which I’d never before seen or heard, though I have known it many times since.

I had taken her uncle from her: the man who was her keeper and her sole protector in the world. With my own hand I had done this. His blood was upon me.

Once more Robert called my name. That was when I noticed the coin-pouch lying just beyond the reach of Gerbod’s outstretched fingers, as if even in death he clutched at it.

‘What about the silver?’ I asked Robert.

‘Leave it!’ he said. ‘It belongs to her now. Now, run!’

But Joscelina had no interest in the money. Even as I stood there, she rushed to her uncle’s side, kneeling down beside him and hugging his bloodstained chest tightly to her own, her cheeks streaming with tears. Swallowing to hold down the bile rising in my throat, I tore my gaze away and broke into a run as I followed Robert through the gathered crowds, fleeing that place of ill fortune. No one dared try to stop us.

We left the town that same hour, riding hard along the tracks towards the woods to the south to escape any of Gerbod’s friends who might pursue us and try to bring us to justice or take their revenge. That it had been an accident, that it had been he who attacked us and that we were only defending ourselves would count for nothing in the eyes of those who passed judgment. Although in years to come Robert’s star would rise and mine with it, at that time he was still far from rich, and possessed little influence that he could use to sway them. Thus we had no choice but to flee the town. I remember glancing back and watching the houses and the walls disappearing behind us and coming to the realisation even then that, for me, nothing thereafter would be the same.

And that was how it happened. It is strange how the names and faces return so easily to me, when many of the companions and sword-brothers with whom I once shared bread and fought shoulder to shoulder in battle have long since slipped my mind. Strange, too, how vivid it all remains in my memory, although it was but a minor street scuffle rather than a glorious battle, and over in moments besides. Still, it marked a turning point in my life, for that was the day I became a killer and my journey began. Men who previously had looked down on me as stable-hand and cup-bearer and serving-lad started to see me differently and to hold me in greater regard, as if I were a new person altogether. What Robert told them and what they believed took place that day, I never learnt. Certainly I never said anything to them, nor did they ever question me regarding the truth of the matter, and that was probably for the best.

The boy had proven himself a warrior, and in so doing had taken his first steps upon the sword-path; that was all that counted. Of course his lord was hoping that he would grow into a good enough warrior that that kill would become merely the first of many, and so it proved in the years that followed. But the truth is and always has been that no matter how great a man’s prowess with spear and sword and shield, or how much silver and gold he may acquire, or how many fine horses he owns, or whether by his deeds he forges himself a reputation to last until the day of judgement, still that first time he took a life will be the one he remembers most clearly.

I should know, for I have walked that path. My name is Tancred, and this is my tale.

The smoke on the horizon was the first sign that the enemy were nearby. It billowed in great plumes above the fields, spreading like an ink-stain upon the fresh parchment of the sky. Save for the occasional bleating of sheep in the pastures and the warbling of skylarks hovering high above, there was no sound. A thin drizzle fell, the wind had died to almost nothing and everything else was still, which made the sight of those plumes in the distance all the more unnerving.

Straightaway I reined in my destrier, Fyrheard, and raised my hand to those following as a signal to halt. My men, riding to either side of me, responded at once, as did the mounted archers at the rear of our column, but the oxen-drivers were too busy talking between themselves to notice, and only my shout of warning stopped them and their animals from colliding with us. I cast a glare in their direction and berated them in the English tongue, but they didn’t seem to notice. Suddenly their minds were on the distant smoke, at which they were pointing and shouting in alarm.

‘A hall-burning, do you think, lord?’ Serlo asked. One of my two household knights, he was a bear of a man with a fearsome sword-arm and a temper to match: not the kind of man that I would have liked to face in a fight, and I was glad to count him as a friend.

‘If it is, it wouldn’t be the first,’ I replied. Nor, I suspected, was it likely to be the last. In the last fortnight the rebels had made half a dozen such raids, always in different places but always following the same pattern: striking as if from nowhere to lay the torch to a village or manor, before just as quickly withdrawing to their boats and melting away into the marshes. By the time word of what had taken place had reached us and the king had sent out men to meet them in battle, they were already long gone. Still, it was rare that they should strike so far from their island stronghold. The castle at Cantebrigia was barely two hours behind us; the rebels were either growing bolder or else more foolhardy, and I couldn’t make up my mind which.

‘What now?’ Pons asked, his voice low. The second of my knights, he possessed a sharp wit and an equally sharp tongue, which he often struggled to restrain, but there was nothing light-hearted about his manner now.

‘We could try to find another way around,’ Serlo suggested.

‘Not if we want to reach the king’s camp by dusk,’ I said. Aside from the main tracks, I wasn’t at all familiar with this land: a flat and featureless expanse of pasture and barley fields, crossed by streams and rivers narrow and wide. What I did know was that there were few well-made ways along which fully laden carts could travel, with bridges and fords that they could cross. We could easily waste several hours if we decided to leave the road and strike out across the country.

Pons frowned. ‘Do we go on, then?’

‘They could be lying in wait for us,’ Serlo pointed out.

I considered. On the one hand I had no wish to lead us all into a trap, but on the other it seemed unlikely the enemy would announce their presence so clearly if an ambush was what they had in mind. Besides, it had been several weeks since the rebels had made any serious attempts to waylay our supply trains — not since the king had begun sending out parties of knights and other warriors to accompany them and ward off any would-be attackers.

And that was how I came to be here. I, Tancred the Breton, Tancred of Earnford. The man who had helped win the gates in the battle at Eoferwic, who had led the charge against the pretender, Eadgar Ætheling, faced him upon the bridge and almost killed him. The same man who by night had entered the enemy’s camp in Beferlic, rescued his lord from imprisonment at the hands of the Danes, and captured the feared Wild Eadric, the scourge of the Marches. I had stared death in the face more often than I cared to remember and each time lived to tell the tale. I had done what others thought impossible. By rights I should have been rewarded with vast lands and halls of stone, chests brimming with silver, gilded swords and helmets with which to arm myself, stables of fleet-footed Andalusian horses that I could offer as gifts to my followers. I should have been leading forays against the enemy, hunting down their foraging parties, training at arms with my companions, or else helping to hone the shield- and spear-skills of those less proficient in the ways of war.