James Aitcheson - Knights of the Hawk

A man always remembers his first kill. In the same way that he can recall the time he first felt a woman’s touch, so he can conjure up the face of his first victim and every detail of that moment. Even many years later he will be able to say where it took place and what was the time of day, whether it was raining or whether the sun shone, how he held his blade and how he struck and where he buried the steel. He will remember his foe’s screams ringing in his ears, the feel of warm blood running across his fingers and the stench of voided bowels and freshly opened guts rising up. He will remember the horror brought on by the realisation of what he has done, of what he has become, and those memories will remain with him as long as he lives.

And so it was with me. Rarely have I ever spoken of this, and even among my closest companions there are few who know the whole story. There was a time years ago when my fellow knights and I would spend the evenings sitting around the campfire and spinning boastful yarns of our achievements, but even then it was never something I cared to speak of, and I would often change the details to suit what I thought those listening would prefer to hear. Why that was, I’m unsure. Perhaps it is because it didn’t happen in the heat and thunder of the charge, or in the grim spearwork of the shield-wall, as many might wish to think, and for that reason I am ashamed, although many of my fellow warriors would undoubtedly have a similar story to tell. Perhaps it is because all these events that I now set down in writing took place many decades ago, and when I look back on my time upon this earth there are far nobler deeds that I would rather remember. Perhaps it is simply because it is no one’s business but my own.

What happened is this. I was in my sixteenth summer at the time: more than a boy but not quite a man; a promising rider but not yet proficient in swordcraft, and still lacking in the virtues of patience and temper that were required of the oath-sworn knight I aspired to be. Like all youths I was hot-tempered and arrogant; my head was filled with dreams of glory and plunder and a foolish belief that nothing in the world could harm me, and it was that same foolishness that caused me to cross those men that summer’s day.

We had that afternoon arrived in some small Flemish river-town, the name of which I’ve long since forgotten, on our way home from paying homage to the Norman duke. I had been sent with a purse full of silver by the man who was then my lord, Robert de Commines, to secure overnight lodgings for our party. It should have been an easy task, except that it happened to be a market day, and not only that but it was also nearing the feast of a minor saint whose name I was unfamiliar with but whom the folk of the surrounding country revered, which meant that the streets were crowded and each one of the dozen inns I visited was already full with merchants and pilgrims who had come to sell their wares, to worship and to attend the festivities.

Weary from my wanderings, eventually I found a corner of the main thoroughfare where I could sit upon the dusty ground and rest my legs. Leaning back against a wall, I wondered whether it was better to return to Lord Robert, tell him of my failure and risk his displeasure, or to keep looking, though it seemed a fruitless task. My throat was parched and I drank down the last few drops from my ale-flask to soothe it. The pungent fragrance of the spice-monger’s garlic filled my nose, mixed with the less palatable smells of cattle dung from the streets and the carcasses of poultry hanging from the butchers’ stalls. Once in a while my ears would make out a few words in French or Breton, the only two worldly tongues I was familiar with, but otherwise all I heard was a cacophony of men and women calling across the wide marketplace, dogs barking, young children shrieking as they chased each other in between the stalls, prompting annoyed shouts from those whose paths they obstructed. Oxen snorted as they drew wagons laden with sheaves of wheat and casks that might have contained wine, or else some kind of salted meat. A young man juggled coloured balls and some of the townsfolk crowded around to marvel at his skill; from one of the side streets floated the sound of a pipe, accompanied by the steady beating of a tabor.

And then I saw her. She sat on a stool on the other side of the wide street, behind a trestle table laden with wet-glistening salmon and herring. Her fair hair was uncovered, tied in a loose braid that shone gold in the sun and trailed halfway down her back, a sign that she wasn’t yet wed. By my reckoning she was about as old as myself, or perhaps a year or so older; I have never been much good at guessing ages. She had a fine-featured face, with attentive, smiling eyes, and a friendly manner with the folk who stopped at the stall to ask how much those fish were worth and to argue the price, before grudgingly and at length handing over their coin.

A more beautiful creature I had never laid eyes upon. None of the girls with whom I’d stolen kisses in the woods of Commines or on our travels could match her. The sight of her was like the sweetest, strongest wine I had tasted, and I drank deeply, letting it go to my head, making sure to take in every smallest detail, from the way her eyes narrowed in concentration as she worked a blade between the two halves of an oyster shell, to the deftness of her knife-work as she prised it open, and the quickness of her fingers in scooping out the silver-shining meat contained within and placing it in a wooden bowl beside her.

How long I sat there watching her shell oysters, entranced by her beauty and her skill, I cannot say. It must have been some while, for eventually I realised that she was looking back at me, an odd expression upon her face. Heat rose up my cheeks. Others might have chosen that moment to avert their gaze, and I almost did, but instead, almost without willing it, I found myself getting to my feet and making my way through the crowds towards her, making my apologies to a stout-armed woman carrying a pail of water in each hand, who berated me after I almost collided with her. At least this seemed to amuse the girl, who greeted me with a broad smile when I reached the fishmonger’s stall.

‘I haven’t seen you before,’ she said. ‘You’re not from here, are you?’

She spoke in French, although with a slight accent, as if it were not her first tongue, which meant we had something in common. Her voice was light and full of warmth, exactly as I had imagined it would be.

‘We arrived a few hours ago,’ I said by way of explanation, and wished I had something more interesting to offer by way of conversation, but I was enthralled by this precious jewel. An idea came to me, and I drew from my knapsack a small, bruised pear I’d purchased earlier from one of the fruit-sellers who plied their trade by the wharves on the river.

‘For you,’ I said, and held it out as I met her eyes, grey-blue like the open sea. How I ever thought to win a girl’s affections with such a paltry gift, I wasn’t sure, but I was young and stupid, and that was all I had to give as a token of my admiration.

At first she hesitated, regarding both myself and the pear with a quizzical look as if it were some sort of trick, but after a moment she reached out to accept my offering.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and gave that smile again as she raised it to her lips, but at the same moment a firm hand grabbed her wrist and she gave a yelp of surprise. A shadow fell across us and I glanced up to see a man as wide as he was tall, with thinning hair, a bloodstained apron across his round belly, and a curved blade gripped tightly in his hand.