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Authors: James Aitcheson
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river.
‘Who are you?’ he said in French, his eyes narrowing. His hairwas dark, cut short on the top and shaved at the back like mine. He had thin lips and a keen stare.
I was still on my hands and knees. I looked up at him, too fearful to say anything. My mind was whirling: what would these men do to me now that they had caught me?
‘Folcard!’ the boy called in the direction, I guessed, of the men at the campfire. ‘There’s a thief in your—’
He had not the time to finish, for I was scrambling to my feet, my head down like a bull’s as I barrelled into his lower half. He went down, and I was half running, half stumbling past, seeing the safety of the woods before me, when all of a sudden I felt him grab first my tunic and then my leg. I heard cloth rip and found myself falling too. The wind was knocked from my chest as I hit the ground. I struggled to get free, flailing my leg, trying to kick him away, but he held on, and then somehow he was on top of me, one hand pressed down on my collarbone, the other raised high.
I saw the blow coming and turned my head to one side. His hand connected with the side of my face and I felt the impact jar through my jaw. He sat back, getting ready to deliver another strike, but I rose up, grabbing him around the waist and wrestling him from me. He lashed out, missing my head, and I slammed my fist into his nose. He reeled back, crying out as he put a hand to his face. Blood, thick and dark, dripped through his fingers.
I had never struck anyone before, let alone drawn blood. I stared at him, not knowing what to do. My heart was beating fast; a rush of excitement came over me. Then I heard voices and looked up. The men from the fire were running towards me, some with swords drawn. Their legs were longer than mine and I knew that for all my speed, I could not outrun them. I stood in my torn tunic, frozen to the spot as they approached and began to spread out, surrounding me.
‘You,’ said the one I had taken for their lord. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
His voice was deep, his face stern. He was not all that tall, but there was something about his manner that nevertheless commanded respect.
‘My name is Tancred,’ I replied nervously. The words felt awkward on my tongue. My name was French, given to me by my mother, but I did not speak the language much. Some of the brothers in the monastery had spoken it, but not as much as they had Breton and Latin: tongues which I knew far more readily.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Dinant,’ I said. I looked around the rest of the men. All of them had scabbards at their sides, and most were wearing leather jerkins, though a few had mail like their lord. They were all different sizes: some short and squat, arms folded in front of their chests; others slim and long-limbed, with piercing stares that I did my best to avoid.
‘You have a family, a father or mother?’ I heard the lord say.
I turned back to face him, shaking my head. My mother had died giving birth to the girl who would have been my sister. Not much later my father had followed her from this world after a feud with another man. He had not been anyone of great standing, just a minor lord with some lands near to Dinant. Neither was my uncle, his older brother, who took me in after his death. He had his own sons to provide for, and I was nothing but another mouth to feed. And so, as soon as they would take me, he gave me up to the monastery, where I had lived until just a few days before.
The lord raised his thick eyebrows but did not enquire further, regarding me without emotion. ‘You fight well,’ he said, and gestured towards the boy. ‘Eudo has been training with me for a year and more, and still you managed to best him.’
I glanced at the one he had called Eudo, who was standing hunched over, feeling his nose, cursing and then cursing some more. He drew a grimy sleeve across his face and it came away scarlet. He did not meet my eyes.
‘How old are
‘Who are you?’ he said in French, his eyes narrowing. His hairwas dark, cut short on the top and shaved at the back like mine. He had thin lips and a keen stare.
I was still on my hands and knees. I looked up at him, too fearful to say anything. My mind was whirling: what would these men do to me now that they had caught me?
‘Folcard!’ the boy called in the direction, I guessed, of the men at the campfire. ‘There’s a thief in your—’
He had not the time to finish, for I was scrambling to my feet, my head down like a bull’s as I barrelled into his lower half. He went down, and I was half running, half stumbling past, seeing the safety of the woods before me, when all of a sudden I felt him grab first my tunic and then my leg. I heard cloth rip and found myself falling too. The wind was knocked from my chest as I hit the ground. I struggled to get free, flailing my leg, trying to kick him away, but he held on, and then somehow he was on top of me, one hand pressed down on my collarbone, the other raised high.
I saw the blow coming and turned my head to one side. His hand connected with the side of my face and I felt the impact jar through my jaw. He sat back, getting ready to deliver another strike, but I rose up, grabbing him around the waist and wrestling him from me. He lashed out, missing my head, and I slammed my fist into his nose. He reeled back, crying out as he put a hand to his face. Blood, thick and dark, dripped through his fingers.
I had never struck anyone before, let alone drawn blood. I stared at him, not knowing what to do. My heart was beating fast; a rush of excitement came over me. Then I heard voices and looked up. The men from the fire were running towards me, some with swords drawn. Their legs were longer than mine and I knew that for all my speed, I could not outrun them. I stood in my torn tunic, frozen to the spot as they approached and began to spread out, surrounding me.
‘You,’ said the one I had taken for their lord. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
His voice was deep, his face stern. He was not all that tall, but there was something about his manner that nevertheless commanded respect.
‘My name is Tancred,’ I replied nervously. The words felt awkward on my tongue. My name was French, given to me by my mother, but I did not speak the language much. Some of the brothers in the monastery had spoken it, but not as much as they had Breton and Latin: tongues which I knew far more readily.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Dinant,’ I said. I looked around the rest of the men. All of them had scabbards at their sides, and most were wearing leather jerkins, though a few had mail like their lord. They were all different sizes: some short and squat, arms folded in front of their chests; others slim and long-limbed, with piercing stares that I did my best to avoid.
‘You have a family, a father or mother?’ I heard the lord say.
I turned back to face him, shaking my head. My mother had died giving birth to the girl who would have been my sister. Not much later my father had followed her from this world after a feud with another man. He had not been anyone of great standing, just a minor lord with some lands near to Dinant. Neither was my uncle, his older brother, who took me in after his death. He had his own sons to provide for, and I was nothing but another mouth to feed. And so, as soon as they would take me, he gave me up to the monastery, where I had lived until just a few days before.
The lord raised his thick eyebrows but did not enquire further, regarding me without emotion. ‘You fight well,’ he said, and gestured towards the boy. ‘Eudo has been training with me for a year and more, and still you managed to best him.’
I glanced at the one he had called Eudo, who was standing hunched over, feeling his nose, cursing and then cursing some more. He drew a grimy sleeve across his face and it came away scarlet. He did not meet my eyes.
‘How old are
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