shield like an arrow. He laughs, pulls it free and drops it in the mud. He walks his horse towards me, not knowing whether to spear me on his lance or just trample me into the ground. I grab a smouldering brand that was once a cruck beam and swipe it in front of me.
The other knight rides up and touches his captain’s arm.
‘Look at his head.’ He’s seen my tonsure. He wheels his horse to face his captain. ‘It’s a sin to kill a priest.’
‘And folly to leave a son alive.’ The captain is a huge man, taller than the roof of the hall – or so it seems to my ten-year-old imagination. He wears a chain ventail laced on to his helmet so I can’t see his face; his helmet puts his eyes into shadow. I stare at him unblinking. I’ve heard that if you see the man who kills you, you haunt him ever afterwards as a ghost.
It’s only afterwards that I realise he was speaking in French.At the time, I don’t notice. The captain is deciding whether to kill me. His horse paws the ground. Warhorses are not bred to stand still in battle.
Somewhere in the distance a horn blows. I don’t know who has sounded it, but it speaks to the captain. He pulls his own horn from his saddle and repeats the call. Around me, I sense the tide of the battle ebbing.
The captain pricks his spurs without warning. The horse springs forward and thunders towards me – I know I should jump out of the way, but I can’t move. Perhaps the greater part of me wants to die. The ground trembles under my feet, as if the earth is opening itself to receive me. I close my eyes and wait for death.
And then the ground is still and the horse is behind me. I haven’t moved. I look down, and realise I’m still holding the brand. At the last moment, the horse must have swerved away from the fire. Whether the knight chose to spare me, or whether he missed his opportunity, I’ll never have the chance to ask. If I ever see him again I’ll kill him on sight.
The other knight rides by. He doesn’t want to kill me, but as he passes he swings the butt of his spear into my ribs, knocking me back onto the ground. By the time I get to my feet, the battle’s over.
I stagger to the gate and see the departing raiders streaming back across the bridge with our livestock, my father’s horses, whatever bits and pieces of our household they can carry. One has a duck under his arm; another is carrying a stack of our silver plates as if he’s just cleared them from the table. A goblet wobbles on top of the pile.
My mother runs after them, screaming a cry that tears open my soul. She catches up with the knights at the head of the bridge. One of them turns; he makes a movement I can’t see,and my mother collapses to the ground. She looks as if she’s fainted, but she’ll never get up. My father is dead, run through his thighs with a lance and then beheaded. My brother Ralph died beside him. Wandering through the ashes, I see the crows and rooks coming to pick out his eyes. I run towards them in a fury, but I’m so feeble that day they barely move. They flutter onto a broken plough and watch, waiting for their chance. There are no buildings where I can hide Ralph’s body, so I dig his grave right there.
The Welsh love their feuds, as ready to avenge a hundred-year-old insult as one suffered this morning. They’re vindictive, bloodthirsty and violent. Perhaps, living among them, I’ve learned something of their ferocity, for now I have sworn revenge.
I am the oldest son now. Knighthood is my right, and my duty.
IX
East London
A fog hung over London that morning. The streetlamps were still lit, casting a false dawn over the cobbled alleys and brick warehouses. If not for the lights of the burglar alarms winking from their gables, it might have been a hundred years ago.
Ellie stood waist deep in boxes and wished she’d worn gloves. The rain the day before had turned the cardboard to pulp, which came away in long strips when she touched it. The skip stank of damp
The other knight rides up and touches his captain’s arm.
‘Look at his head.’ He’s seen my tonsure. He wheels his horse to face his captain. ‘It’s a sin to kill a priest.’
‘And folly to leave a son alive.’ The captain is a huge man, taller than the roof of the hall – or so it seems to my ten-year-old imagination. He wears a chain ventail laced on to his helmet so I can’t see his face; his helmet puts his eyes into shadow. I stare at him unblinking. I’ve heard that if you see the man who kills you, you haunt him ever afterwards as a ghost.
It’s only afterwards that I realise he was speaking in French.At the time, I don’t notice. The captain is deciding whether to kill me. His horse paws the ground. Warhorses are not bred to stand still in battle.
Somewhere in the distance a horn blows. I don’t know who has sounded it, but it speaks to the captain. He pulls his own horn from his saddle and repeats the call. Around me, I sense the tide of the battle ebbing.
The captain pricks his spurs without warning. The horse springs forward and thunders towards me – I know I should jump out of the way, but I can’t move. Perhaps the greater part of me wants to die. The ground trembles under my feet, as if the earth is opening itself to receive me. I close my eyes and wait for death.
And then the ground is still and the horse is behind me. I haven’t moved. I look down, and realise I’m still holding the brand. At the last moment, the horse must have swerved away from the fire. Whether the knight chose to spare me, or whether he missed his opportunity, I’ll never have the chance to ask. If I ever see him again I’ll kill him on sight.
The other knight rides by. He doesn’t want to kill me, but as he passes he swings the butt of his spear into my ribs, knocking me back onto the ground. By the time I get to my feet, the battle’s over.
I stagger to the gate and see the departing raiders streaming back across the bridge with our livestock, my father’s horses, whatever bits and pieces of our household they can carry. One has a duck under his arm; another is carrying a stack of our silver plates as if he’s just cleared them from the table. A goblet wobbles on top of the pile.
My mother runs after them, screaming a cry that tears open my soul. She catches up with the knights at the head of the bridge. One of them turns; he makes a movement I can’t see,and my mother collapses to the ground. She looks as if she’s fainted, but she’ll never get up. My father is dead, run through his thighs with a lance and then beheaded. My brother Ralph died beside him. Wandering through the ashes, I see the crows and rooks coming to pick out his eyes. I run towards them in a fury, but I’m so feeble that day they barely move. They flutter onto a broken plough and watch, waiting for their chance. There are no buildings where I can hide Ralph’s body, so I dig his grave right there.
The Welsh love their feuds, as ready to avenge a hundred-year-old insult as one suffered this morning. They’re vindictive, bloodthirsty and violent. Perhaps, living among them, I’ve learned something of their ferocity, for now I have sworn revenge.
I am the oldest son now. Knighthood is my right, and my duty.
IX
East London
A fog hung over London that morning. The streetlamps were still lit, casting a false dawn over the cobbled alleys and brick warehouses. If not for the lights of the burglar alarms winking from their gables, it might have been a hundred years ago.
Ellie stood waist deep in boxes and wished she’d worn gloves. The rain the day before had turned the cardboard to pulp, which came away in long strips when she touched it. The skip stank of damp
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