Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by James Aitcheson

  Title Page

  Dedication

  List of place names

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  AUTUMN, 1071. The struggle for England has been long and brutal. Now, however, five years after the fateful Battle of Hastings, only a determined band of rebels in the Fens stands between King William and absolute conquest.

  Tancred, a proud and ambitious knight, is among the Normans marching to crush them. Once lauded for his exploits, his fame is now fading. Embittered by his dwindling fortunes and by the oath shackling him to his lord, he yearns for the chance to win back his reputation through the spilling of enemy blood.

  But as the Normans’ attempts to assault the rebels’ island stronghold meet with failure, the King grows increasingly desperate. With morale in camp failing, and the prospect of victory seeming ever more distant, Tancred’s loyalty is put to the test as never before.

  As friendships sour and old grudges resurface, Tancred must make a choice that will determine his destiny. Together with a host of unlikely allies, he sets out on a journey that will take him from the marshes of East Anglia into the wild, storm-tossed seas of the north, as he ventures in pursuit of love, of honour, and of vengeance.

  About the Author

  James Aitcheson was born in Wiltshire and read History at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where began his fascination with the medieval period and the Norman Conquest in particular. Knights of the Hawk is his third novel.

  Also by James Aitcheson

  Sworn Sword

  The Splintered Kingdom

  Knights of the Hawk

  JAMES AITCHESON

  For Alistair

  List of Place-Names

  THROUGHOUT THE NOVEL I have chosen to use contemporary names for the locations involved, as recorded in charters, chronicles and in Domesday Book (1086). Spellings of these names were rarely consistent, however, and often many variations were current at the same time, as for example for Cambridge, which in this period was rendered as Grantanbrycge, Grantabricge and Grentebrige in addition to the form that I have preferred, Cantebrigia. For locations within the British Isles my principal sources have been A Dictionary of British Place-Names, edited by A. D. Mills (OUP: Oxford, 2003) and The Cambridge Dictionary of English Place-Names, edited by Victor Watts (CUP: Cambridge, 2004).

  Alba

  Scotland

  Alrehetha

  Aldreth, Cambridgeshire

  Archis

  Arques-la-Bataille, France

  Beferlic

  Beverley, East Riding of Yorkshire

  Brandune

  Brandon, Suffolk

  Brycgstowe

  Bristol

  Burh

  Peterborough, Cambridgeshire

  Cadum

  Caen, France

  Cantebrigia

  Cambridge

  Ceastre

  Chester

  Clune

  Clun, Shropshire

  Commines

  Comines, France/Belgium

  Corbei

  Corby, Northamptonshire

  Cornualia

  Cornwall

  Defnascir

  Devon

  Dinant

  Dinan, France

  Dunholm

  Durham

  Dure

  Jura, Argyll and Bute

  Dyflin

  Dublin, Republic of Ireland

  Earnford

  near Bucknell, Shropshire (fictional)

  Elyg

  Ely, Cambridgeshire

  Eoferwic

  York

  Gipeswic

  Ipswich, Suffolk

  Glowecestre

  Gloucester

  Hæstinges

  Hastings, East Sussex

  Haltland

  Shetland

  Heia

  Eye, Suffolk

  Hlymrekr

  Limerick, Republic of Ireland

  Ile

  Islay, Argyll and Bute

  Kathenessia

  Caithness

  Leomynstre

  Leominster, Herefordshire

  Litelport

  Littleport, Cambridgeshire

  Lundene

  London

  Lyteluse

  River Little Ouse

  Mann

  Isle of Man

  Montgommeri

  Sainte-Foy-de-Montgommery, France

  Orkaneya

  Orkney

  Oxeneford

  Oxford

  Rencesvals

  Roncesvalles, Spain

  Sarraguce

  Zaragoza, Spain

  Saverna

  River Severn

  Scrobbesburh

  Shrewsbury, Shropshire

  Sudwerca

  Southwark, Greater London

  Suthreyjar

  Hebrides

  Temes

  River Thames

  Use

  River Great Ouse

  Utwell

  Outwell, Norfolk

  Wiceford

  Witchford, Cambridgeshire

  Wiltune

  Wilton, Wiltshire

  Wirecestre

  Worcester

  Yrland

  Ireland

  Ysland

  Iceland

  Prologue

  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.

  ‘You,’ he barked at me. ‘Who are you?’

  So startled was I by the question and by his sudden manner that no words arrived upon my tongue.

  ‘Do you wish to buy some herring?’

  ‘N-no,’ I replied, confused, as I looked up at him. No one would ever have described me as short, but even when I drew myself up to my full height this man still had the advantage of at least a head over me.

  ‘A basket of oysters, perhaps?’

  Even at sixteen summers I recognised the smell of ale on a man’s breath, and I caught a great whiff of it then. I shook my head.

  ‘So it’s my niece you want to buy, then? You want to have your way with her, like all the others who’ve had their eye on her. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  It had been a glance and a smile and a few words exchanged, nothing more. How could he take insult from that?

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ I replied, with as much defiance as I could muster as I remembered who I was: a knight-in-training in the service of the famed Robert de Commines, and more than a match for this brute.

  One hand still held his curved knife, but with the other he snatched the pear from the girl’s hand. She gave a squeak of protest, but he ignored her.

  ‘I know your kind,’ he told me. ‘You take a fancy to my Joscelina and think you can tempt her with presents as soon as my back is turned. I didn’t take her in and feed and clothe her all these years just to see some filthy lice-ridden beggar take her from me.’

  ‘Uncle—’

  Whatever Joscelina had been about to say, she was silenced by a slap across the face. The fishmonger let go of her wrist and she gave a cry as she fell awkwardly on to the muddy street.

  He turned the pear over in his hand, examining it with disdain. ‘Is this how much you think she’s worth?’ he asked. ‘This worm-ridden thing?’ He tossed it into the gutter where the fish-heads lay.

  By then a handful of the other stallholders had come to see what the commotion was about. They were men of all shapes: some tall and wiry; others built like the girl’s un
cle, with strong shoulders and swollen guts and weather-worn faces that bore stern expressions.

  ‘Are you making trouble for Gerbod, lad?’ said one of them as they began to form a ring around me.

  What I should have done then was see sense and make my apologies, or else try to run before anything further happened; there was no doubt that I was quicker on my feet than these men. That was what instinct told me was the right course, but something else held me there. My blood had been stirred; it ran hot in my veins as anger swelled inside me. It wasn’t that the fishmonger’s words offended me, for in my life I had been called many worse things than a beggar, and bore such insults lightly. Rather what angered me was the way he’d struck his niece when she had done nothing to deserve it, and even though how he chose to treat her was none of my business, in that moment my head was filled with visions of myself as her stalwart defender, in the manner of the knights of legend, the ones praised by the poets in their songs.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the fishmonger, the man they’d called Gerbod. He waved his bloodied fish knife in my direction. ‘Get gone from here before I bury this blade in your gut.’

  But I wasn’t listening. Instead I slid my own knife from its sheath and brandished it before me, clutching the hilt so tightly that it hurt my palm as I turned to face each one of them in turn. The weapon had been given to me by Lord Robert when first I’d entered his service, and I treasured it above all my other possessions, often spending long hours by light of sun and moon honing its edge with whetstone and polishing the flat of the steel until my own reflection gazed back at me. Of course I’d been in fights before, both in the training yard and outside of it, but rarely with anyone but the other servant-boys in Lord Robert’s household, and certainly not with full-grown men such as these, who looked as though they had seen more than their share of tussles over the years. Including Gerbod, there were six of them. Even many years later, when my sword-skills were at their sharpest, when for a while my name was among those sung by the poets and my deeds were known far and wide, I would have thought twice about trying to fight so many by myself. To think I could do so then, when I had not even sixteen summers behind me, was the height of folly, but arrogance had blinded me. That, and a desire to prove myself, to show the girl, her uncle and his friends that I was no craven.