Knight Assassin Read online

  The skins were quickly placed on stretch frames for drying and scraping. Nothing was going to waste. The vital organs of both animals would be served that evening, including the lungs; the belly would be boiled down as tripe and the intestines would be cleaned and used for sausages.

  The hounds seemed to be everywhere, trying to snatch a piece of meat when people were not paying attention, and were often kicked or beaten out of the way for their pains. Then they’d take to snarling at each other, and at the person who might have delivered the kick. They would not bite, however, as that meant fearsome punishment at the hands of the huntsman and they knew better.

  Talon, fresh from his bath, had time now to seek out the blacksmith. He found the man working in a crude, open-walled hut. There was a dirty urchin pumping some leather bellows while the blacksmith, a tall rangy man with strong arms, beat some iron into a tool of sorts. He was bare-chested, wearing only trews and a leather apron.

  He saw Talon watching him and looked up. His face was long, but strong-featured. His dark-gray eyes were deep-set under beetling brows that gave him a permanent frown. He wore a huge beard but it seemed well cared for. His hair was very long and braided in two tails that fell down his back. He paused in his work, then knuckled his sweating forehead to Talon in salute, leaving a smudge where his knuckle had been.

  Talon smiled and lifted the javelin up and pointed to the bend. “This needs to be straightened.”

  The man took the spear and held it balanced in his hand and then said dismissively, “I did not make this; it is not well-tempered.”

  “Will you repair it?”

  “Yes, it will be repaired and it will be better when I am done.”

  ”What are you making?” Talon asked, pointing at the metal in the tongs.

  The man turned the still red piece of iron over in his tongs and looked at it reflectively. “It's just a farm tool, m’lord,” he said politely, without being servile.

  “Do you make chain mail?”

  “I can... do you need some?”

  “No, but it is good for a blacksmith to know how.”

  “We have no need of it here, m’lord.”

  “There is always a need for men who make weapons and armor,” Talon said.

  “I have made axes and spears, but not a sword, and I have yet to make more than a few hauberks, m’lord.”

  “What is your name?”

  “It is Feremundus. I am from the north.”

  “Well, Feremundus, I might come to you one day for weapons. I hope you can make them.”

  “I shall make them for you, m’lord,” the man said, obviously eager to get back to work. The man seemed taciturn and unwilling to talk much.

  Talon left him to his work and went to find the archers.

  Talon enjoyed the rest of the daylight hours spent with the Welshmen. They practiced with some makeshift butts they had rigged out on the grassy field in front of the fortress. He impressed them with the accuracy of his strikes, but they in turn impressed him with the power of their bows.

  They could send an arrow one hundred paces and strike the straw target every time. They gave derisive hoots when one of their number failed to make a “killing strike” as they called it. He had never used one of these yew bows and at first found it hard to draw the full amount. He understood now the reason for their big chests and huge arms. But he soon got the hang of it and then began to match them for placement in the target.

  They in turn were curious about his bow but he was at pains to point out that it was designed to be used from a horse at a gallop, which they appreciated as they were well familiar with the Seljuk cavalry of Syria, having fought them.

  He even rode Jabbar out onto the grass and demonstrated how it was done. He put Jabbar into a tight canter, guiding the horse with his legs and back, leaving his arms and hands free. Then he cantered past the target, loosing arrows off from the front, and then turned completely around in the saddle and again hit the target with well-aimed arrows. Then he did the same thing at a full gallop.

  Gareth pointed up at Talon when he came back to the gathered archers. “That, M’lord, is how we saw them Turks doing it! They was very dangerous if they could get close enough, but we could keep them away with our arrows.”

  They spent the rest of the day in companionable discussion as to the various merits of weaponry they had encountered while in the Holy Land.

  Soon it was evening and time for the feast. Rush and oil torches were lit and placed on the walls and at the gates to show guests from the village the way in, and all along the walls of the Great Hall. Their smoke was soon curling up to the rafters, creating a dense cloud among the beams. Clean cut rushes had been strewn about the floor of the Hall, and enough benches and tables put out for everyone to be seated.

  Talon’s mother glanced at the oil lamps and muttered about the cost to Sir Hughes, but he hugged her and told her, “The cost of oil is high, that's true, my dear, but the arrival of our son is worth much more!”

  She nodded contentedly in the circle of his arm. “You are right for once, my husband. God be praised for his deliverance and for that bear of a brother of yours.”

  Sir Hughes grinned but said nothing; he knew when to stay his words.

  The precious copper plates used for carrying food were polished until they shone. Baskets of bread appeared on tables and leather mugs were distributed, while at the high table rough pottery mugs were placed on a flax-linen cloth at the place where Sir Hughes and his lady would sit. There was an abundance of olives, garlic and cheeses in other baskets. Large trenchers were cut for the family at the high table and laid out, ready for the meat.

  The baker and cooks under Marguerite’s eagle eye had labored the entire day to produce pies and cooked vegetables. The two carcasses were becoming well roasted in the main yard by the fire pits. The tantalizing smell of roasted meat wafted in through the doors, making everyone suddenly very hungry.

  People from all over the countryside came to the fort that night. They came on foot for the most part, some bringing modest gifts of food to add to the collection.

  Talon had the place of honor at the high table, between his father and his uncle. His mother and Aicelina sat to Sir Hughes’ left side, as did his younger brother. His baby sister was put to bed screaming, well before the feast began.

  He had time to observe the womenfolk and the way they dressed as compared to the women of the East. His mother was dressed severely in a long, forest-green dress that came down to the floor and even dragged in the newly strewn rushes. The sleeves were long, down to the wrist, where they became huge and draped wide. The dress came up to her neck, leaving only her throat exposed.

  At her waist was a thin, loose belt of leather known as the ceinture that hung low off her hips and came to a silver ring in front from which dangled some attractively knotted cords of silk. On her head she wore a small tapestry hat of some red material with a white linen veil that covered most of her hair behind.

  Aicelina had a similar dress of a light-brown color that set off her hair well, but its cut was less conservative and did not completely conceal the rise of her full breasts under the material. Instead of a tapestry hat, she wore a guimple of thin linen, with a light, thin crown of embroidered cloth that was held in place with a copper pin. It left much of her hair and her whole face and throat exposed for the men’s admiring eyes. As with his mother, the thin red belt with small silver studs was of well-worked leather that rested on her hips and drew the eye to her waist.

  Several of the village women, although not as finely dressed as his mother and Aicelina, had attempted to imitate them; while their men folk, for the most part cleaner than usual, were dressed in whatever they had available.

  Talon’s archers were as badly dressed in patched coarse cloth as the peasants who sat with them. Talon resolved to try to do something about that. He was beginning to like the idea that they served him, so he now felt responsible for their attire.

  Only his fa
ther, Philip, and Max were dressed in clothes that could be even vaguely defined as fine. Philip wore his Templar dress, as did Max. Sir Hughes, however, dressed in hose and practical calf boots, scorning the modern fad of pointed toes, and his overcoat was of good, although plain, dyed-brown wool. He wore no armor and only carried a dagger to the table, which he used on his meat.

  From where he was sitting, Talon could look directly across the fire in the middle of the hall to the main entrance. There were benches and tables on either side of the hall for the retainers and villagers and other guests who had been made welcome. He saw the priest for the first time. He was a plump man with a badly cut tonsure and a habit that had known better days. He stood up to bless the assembly, and then Sir Hughes and his family. The priest didn’t seem to be able to look at Talon, which puzzled him and he resolved to find out why.

  The wine and ale was passed about in earthenware jugs for the family and skins for the people in the hall. A festive air permeated the room, and there was a lot of curiosity about this newfound son of Sir Hughes, who had already distinguished himself at the hunt. Many an eye was cast toward the huge boar head which had been placed on a bench just below the high table for all to admire.

  There was an excited hum of conversation among the crowd which became a loud murmur of approval as the house churls began to bring the first slabs of cooked meat into the hall. The meat was quickly distributed and people began to eat. Sir Hughes told Talon that meat was not common fare for the villagers, so this was quite an occasion.

  Talon could see how much the people enjoyed their food. Men and women tore at the meat and the bread as though this was to be their last meal; at the same time, their faces went red with the wine and ale. He began to understand what his father meant. There was an almost complete lack of spices and although salt was available, it was offered by the servants with restraint. A man could take a pinch, but could not take a spoonful. He told himself firmly this was a lot better than the dreadful fare they had been subjected to on the ship.

  As the food was enjoyed so too was the wine, and before long the noise level under the steep rafters of the hall was so high that conversation at the high table was difficult without shouting. Sir Hughes was beaming at one and all, raising his cup to people who wanted to toast him. Talon heard his name called and noticed Gareth standing with his mug in his hand raised to him. He raised his mug in salute.

  Then the people of Languedoc called to Sir Hughes to speak to them. They called in their language, but he understood and got up from his seat. He raised his beaker unsteadily and shouted to the assembly, “Welcome all, my people, villagers, and guests. May you all leave with full bellies and a skin full of wine!”

  There was loud, raucous laughter at this sally, followed by cheering.

  “I and my wife Marguerite have been blessed by God today. My long lost son is returned from the far lands of the Saracen to the bosom of his family. I wish that you would all welcome him.”

  The crowd cheered and stood to its feet, all hands raised to Talon. He stood up and bowed to his father and mother and then the assembly.

  Sir Hughes continued in this vein for a while longer while the villagers on the benches cheered and applauded him. It was clear to Talon that his father had made himself popular with the people in this area.

  Sir Hughes finally settled down into his seat. His face was flushed. He turned to Talon and said loudly, “Talon, I want to hear about the fight with the boar, and then the lion!”

  There was an interested murmur from the crowd who had heard him. But then Cervin got up. “M’lord, I was there. Lord Talon saved my life.”

  Sir Hughes nodded for him to continue. So in the language of Languedoc, Cervin told the assembly of Talon’s courage and how the battle had been fought. In spite of his broken arm he mimed the Welsh shooting their arrows and then Talon striking so well that he had the full attention of the crowded hall. No one moved during the tale and at the end an acutely embarrassed Talon found that once again he was the center of attention.

  The story had just ended when there was a disturbance at the entrance to the hall. A guard from the gatehouse came rushing in. “We have visitors, m’lord—Lord Guillabert d’Albi and his men.” He appeared nervous.

  There was consternation at the name. Sir Hughes stood up, suddenly sober. “How many men, Bermon?”

  “Eight, Sire.”

  “I shall come and welcome him, then. We have guests, my people; we should not keep them waiting.”

  He stood down from the table, motioning for Philip and Talon to follow. As he got up Talon caught Max and Gareth’s eyes. They both nodded and with their men got up and moved off from the crowd. Talon thanked them silently. They would arm themselves and be ready if there was any trouble. The sentry’s behavior had told him all was not well with this visitor.

  The three men walked down the center of the hall. Servants lead the way, with torches held high, into the warm evening to meet the visitors who, still mounted, walked their horses in through the gates. Their dark forms were muffled in cloaks and hard to make out, other than the rounded helmets on the riders following the three leading men.

  “Well met, Sir Guillabert,” Sir Hughes called. “I had not expected the honor of a visit this night. It has been many a month since we last talked.”

  The lead rider halted in front of him and allowed his cloak to fall aside. “I expected an invitation, Sir Hughes,” Guillabert stated sharply. “When none came I decided to come anyway. I hear you have some special guests?”

  Sir Hughes hesitated. Then, as if he had not noticed the tone, he said, “Indeed, I do, sir. Will you not join us? You are welcome to my Hall.”

  The bulky man got off his horse. He tossed the reins to one of the servants and came into the torchlight. He was a heavy man with a full gray beard. He pulled aside the cape of his cloak and revealed short gray hair, cut short to enable him to wear the tight helmet of the fighting man. He was richly dressed, far better than Sir Hughes, whose clothes looked threadbare by comparison.

  He turned to the other two riders and called out. “Get off your horses, Marcel, Roger; we are bid to sup with the Gilles family.”

  The two dark shapes dismounted and walked toward them. Marcel barely acknowledged Talon, although he greeted Sir Philip in a friendly manner.

  Sir Hughes made the introductions. “Sir Guillabert, Marcel, Roger, this is my brother Sir Philip de Gilles, and this is my son, Talon de Gilles.”

  Sir Guillabert gave a short bow to Philip. “It is always an honor to meet a Templar, sir.”

  “I am honored to meet you, Sir Guillabert,” said Sir Philip stiffly.

  The man turned to Talon, who bowed politely.

  Sir Guillabert nodded. “So you are the long-lost son of Sir Hughes. My son informs me that you have lived with the Saracen long enough to become as they are.”

  Talon gave him a cool look. “That depends upon what it is you think they are, sir.”

  Sir Guillabert gave a short bark of a laugh and walked past him, ignoring him. Marcel again barely even acknowledged Talon as he, too, strode past him. The other man in chain mail and helmet followed them. His eyes glowered from behind the nose piece of the helmet. He took his helmet off and shook his head. Greasy locks flew round his sharp features. He had a scarred face and was tall with very strong shoulders. As he strode past Talon he stared at him as though sizing him up, then grinned nastily through bad teeth, after which he followed his father and brother into the hall.

  Philip gripped Talon’s arm hard. “Hold onto your temper, boy. This is not the time to rip his gullet open,” he growled.

  Talon smiled at his uncle. “I shall be as sweet as one of the pies Mother has prepared tonight, Uncle. But Marcel should tread carefully about me in future.”

  Philip grinned in the darkness. The torchbearers were well ahead, leading the guests and Sir Hughes into the Hall. The other men, who had dismounted, remained outside under the watchful looks of the fort guards. T
alon watched to make sure the gates were shut and a sentry was again standing on the walls, then walked over to talk to Gareth, whom he saw standing discreetly in the shadows.

  “Gareth, I need a reliable man to watch for trouble. Will you stay for me?”

  Gareth knuckled his forehead. “I shall be here, as will the others, m’lord.”

  Talon touched the man on the shoulder by way of thanks as he passed.

  He followed the others into the hall where he saw that Sir Guillabert had been placed at the high table. He was provided with wine and meat and began to eat without more ado. Marcel sullenly watched the crowded hall while he tore at the meat and bread and his brother Roger slouched nearby, drinking and glowering about him at the crowded hall.

  Sir Hughes and Marguerite made polite talk and slowly the silence that had greeted the newcomers was replaced with a low murmur and then talk resumed as people began to relax. As the evening wore on Talon noticed that Sir Guillabert and Marcel and Roger were drinking heavily. Neither of the sons spoke to Talon; indeed, they ignored him as though he were not there.

  Sir Guillabert finished his wine and gestured for more, then he turned to Hughes, pointed to Talon. “This boy has come back from the Saracen side, I hear. Does that make him an unbeliever? Has he seen a priest to confess his sins, Sir Hughes? What foul things has he picked up from the unbelievers?” His eyes fell on the priest who was clearly trying to make himself scarce. “You, Priest. Have you heard his confession as yet? What sins does he bring from the Saracen lands?”

  Sir Hughes visibly restrained himself. “My son has come back from the dead just yesterday, Sir Guillabert. We will see the priest and, of course, he shall hear confession all in good time. However I believe that is between Talon, the priest, and God. Not of our concern,” he said levelly.

  Sir Guillabert shrugged. He was into another cup by now. “In any case, he should not count on an inheritance. Is that not right, Hughes?”

  “Cousin, I forbid talk of this nature at such a gathering.” The hitherto silent Marguerite spoke up sharply. “Did you only come here to taunt and insult us at our own hearth?”