Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 2

  It slammed into Calard's shoulder, and he reeled in his saddle. It felt like he had been kicked by a stallion, but he did not fall. He felt no pain, merely the shock of the impact, and he looked dow n incredulously at the shaft of the arrow protruding from the hole it had punched in his armour.

  The bow man lowered his weapon, his mouth gaping wide as he registered the foolish, hasty act that had certainly doomed him. There was a shout of outrage and disbelief from Bertelis and the men-at-arms. The bow man half-jumped, half-fell from his position on the w agon, and began racing aw ay tow ards the mist shrouded trees, panic lending him speed.

  CHLOD LIFTED HIS face out of the mud, and his eyes w idened as he saw the arrow protruding from the knight's shoulder. They had done it now. A peasant attacking a knight! Now, they were certain to hang.

  Slow ly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he began to craw l away through the w et earth, elbow over elbow . He glanced behind him, expecting someone to see him escaping at any moment, and shout out.

  Once at a distance he judged safe, he rose to his feet and began running low, as fast as his clubfoot w ould allow him, loping off into the trees, his heart pounding.

  He shoved a hand into the deep pocket on his jerkin, hoping that he had not crushed his rat. It bit him hard, and he jerked his hand back out, w incing.

  With a final glance behind him, Chlod disappeared into the mist.

  CALARD TOUCHED A hand to the arrow , still in shock at the peasant's action.

  Bertelis pounded across the ground, quickly closing the gap w ith the fleeing bow man, his lance lowering expertly before him. Several men-at-arms also broke into a run in pursuit of the fleeing man. The lance took the peasant in the lower back, punching through his body, and he fell with a cry. Bertelis rode past him and pulled his steed around sharply.

  The man's piteous cries were ended as the men-at-arms reached him and slammed their polearms dow n onto his head, smashing his skull.

  'My lord, are you hurt?' asked a voice at Calard's side. He looked dow n into the concerned, coarse face of the warden at his side.

  'I have an arrow in my shoulder, Guido,' he said dryly. The man reddened, but Calard w aved him aw ay. 'I'm fine.'

  Sw inging his shield over his back, he gripped the shaft of the arrow tightly. It had punched under his pauldron, breaking several of the chainmail links beneath, before sinking into the thick padding he wore beneath his armour, though it had not reached his skin. Thankfully, the shot had been taken in haste; a fully-drawn Bretonnian longbow fired at such close range could easily have killed him. He pulled the arrow free, tossing it to the ground.

  The other peasants had ceased their struggles, and knelt compliantly in the mud w hile the men-at-arms stood over them grimly. Several of them were whimpering and all looked blankly around, their faces pale, shocked by the actions of their comrade.

  Bertelis, his face thunderous, rode back to the peasants, his steed stamping and snorting. He reversed the grip on his lance, and thrust its point forcefully into the ground before sliding from the saddle. He drew his sword from its scabbard w ith a metallic hiss, and advanced on the closest of the kneeling peasants, who stared up at him in numb horror. The men-at-arms flicked glances between them, but none of them w ould dare to step in the path of the enraged young noble.

  'Brother,' said Calard, a w arning tone in his voice. The younger man ignored him, striding purposefully towards the group of peasants, the sword held firmly in his hand.

  'Bertelis!' he said more forcefully, finally giving his brother pause. The younger knight sw ung his head tow ards Calard, his wavy fair hair flicking. 'Hold your arm. I w ill not see these people killed in cold blood.'

  Bertelis gaped at Calard in bew ildered astonishment, as if he had suddenly sprouted horns.

  'Brother,' he gasped, 'you have been struck by a cow ardly arrow fired by one of their number, you, a noble son of Bastonne! An example must be made of these w retches.'

  'Just punishment has been meted out to the offender. Sheath your sword.'

  'But-' began Bertelis.

  'Sheath your sw ord, brother,' said Calard forcefully, cutting him off. Reluctantly, Bertelis did so. He stormed aw ay from the peasants, glaring at Calard, and remounted. He pulled his lance free from the earth.

  'Are you all right?' he asked, his scowl fading. 'My heart skipped a beat w hen I saw the peasant loose that shaft.'

  'It is nothing,' replied Calard. 'It didn't even scratch the skin.' He smiled broadly and shook his head, exhaling slowly. The years slipped aw ay as his strong face relaxed, and, for the first time that morning, he looked his tw enty-one years of age. 'The Lady w as looking over me. I thought Morr w as going to claim me, for a moment.'

  Bertelis grinned back at him, his dark mood forgotten.

  'He w ouldn't w ant you. Too ugly by far.'

  Calard snorted, and turned tow ards the peasant men-at-arms, a serious expression falling across his face like a mask.

  'Warden,' he said, 'w e are done here. My brother and I w ill return to Castle Garamont.'

  The peasant touched the brim of his helmet respectfully. 'I w ill bind 'em, lord, just in case any of 'em try to make a run for it.'

  'Do as you must,' Calard replied, waving a hand dis-missively. He turned his steed aw ay, his heart still racing.

  A w retched, squinting peasant stood before him, clutching a cloth cap in his hands.

  It w as the man w ho had guided Calard to the outlaw s. He was a w easel, but at least he knew his place. The young knight raised an eyebrow.

  'Well?' he asked.

  'Young lord,' the peasant began, 'since I led you here faithfully, I w as hoping that, if it is not too much of an inconvenience, that perhaps I could... My family is poor, lord, and I have no food for my little ones. That is to say, I...'

  The greed of the lower classes was without bounds, thought Calard. They tilled the lands of their lord faithfully, and in return were allowed to keep up to a tenth-share of their produce, and w ere protected from harm.

  'You w ill be recompensed for this duty, peasant,' Calard cut in.

  The man dropped to his knees in the mud, bow ing and scraping.

  'You are too kind, young master,' said the peasant, though Calard found it almost impossible to understand his words, spoken out of the side of the mouth and thickly accented.

  'Warden,' said Calard, 'see that this man is recompensed. I think a half-copper would be more than generous.'

  'Far more than generous,' said Bertelis darkly.

  'Thank you, lord! Thank you,' said the peasant, lowering his head to the ground once again.

  'I am sorry to detain you, my lord,' said the w arden, 'but the truffle swine? Shall I have it returned to the marquis?'

  'Have it given to this man here,' said Calard, feeling generous, 'in lieu of his payment.

  If that suits you, peasant?'

  'Oh yes, lord! You are most generous indeed!' said the kneeling man.

  'Fine. See it done,' said the young knight, before w heeling his horse around and exchanging a glance with Bertelis.

  'Come now Gringolet,' he whispered, leaning forward in the saddle and patting his steed's dappled grey neck. 'You can beat him this time.'

  With one final grin tow ards his brother, he shouted and kicked his destrier into a gallop.

  Giving their powerful steeds their heads, the pair of young knights raced through the mist-shrouded trees, rejoicing in the feeling of freedom and pow er. The icy wind pulled at their hair, and they urged their steeds on, faster.

  They rode w ell, completely at ease in the saddle. Indeed, they had been placed in the saddle even before they had learnt to w alk, and it was as natural to them as breathing as if the horses were merely extensions of their own bodies. The brothers w ere evenly matched in horsemanship, and their steeds too w ere close in strength, pow er and endurance. Nevertheless, Bertelis's chestnut steed w as fierier in nature, and the tenacity of the beast w ould more often than not mean that he w a
s the victor of their races.

  Gringolet leapt a fallen stump, and Calard laughed out loud as he pulled briefly into the lead. He heard Bertelis urging his palomino steed on, and he grinned. They pounded up the earth as they galloped tow ards the edge of the trees marking the northern extent of the grand forest of Chalons.

  No steed of the Empire, nor of Estalia or Tilea, could match the strength and power of a pure-bred Bretonnian horse. None of them were the equal in sheer speed, and the Bretonnians were rightly proud of them. Protected in thick layers of plate barding beneath their flowing cloth caparisons, and carrying the weight of a fully armoured knight, the noble steeds could outpace any horse in the Old World.

  Sighting the edge of the trees, Calard kicked Gringolet forward, riding hard. He flicked a glance sideways, and saw that Bertelis was alongside him, the two horses neck and neck. With a last burst of pow er, Bertelis pulled ahead, and he shouted in victory as they broke from the tree line.

  Laughing, the pair reined their steeds in. Their warhorses w ere lathered in sweat, and their massive chests heaved in great gulps of air. Calard patted Gringolet's neck fondly. He had raised the destrier from a foal, and he was a fine, strong and noble beast.

  They w ere on a rise, overlooking verdant rolling hills of grassland. Sheep were clustered in fluffy white clumps across the hills, accompanied by hunched peasant shepherds, and the sun was just starting to break free of the clouds, making the w hole region glow with early morning light.

  A mess of small, rude hovels in the dip of a small valley marked a peasant settlement, and they could see dozens of dirty men and women shuffling about their duties. As far as they could see, from horizon to horizon, and beyond, was Garamont land, a fiefdom that had been in the family for nine generations, bequeathed from son to son. The Duke of Bastonne had gifted the land to Gundehar, the first lord of Garamont for acts of chivalry and honour on the field of battle.

  Calard and Bertelis had grow n up on the land, and they knew it as w ell as anybody could claim to. As boys, they had ridden and played from one end of their father's lands to the other. It took almost a full day to ride from Castle Garamont to the eastern border of his lands and back, and as youngsters these lands seemed impossibly vast and filled with adventure.

  They w ould often purposefully lose their chaper-ones, much to the distress of those bidden to see them safe, and embark on quests and crusades against imaginary foes.

  How many fair damsels had been rescued from the maw s of monstrous beasts, and evil knights bested in those childhood years? Certainly the number of punishments they suffered at the hands of the old chamberlain, Folcard, was legendary, as w as the number of w itless peasants who sported bruises and bumps w hen set upon by the w ooden sw ords wielded by the pair.

  Those days w ere long gone, however, and the lands of Garamont no longer seemed vast. The pair of young knights had insisted they would ride out to find the peasant outlaw s, merely for something to do. Calard's usual, serious expression fell back into place over his features as the thrill of the race wore off.

  'You know that the taxes levied on that peasant for becoming the ow ner of that hog w ill make him poorer than he is now,' said Bertelis finally, breaking the silence.

  'I know , but he deserves no more. He's a treacherous swine. He and the pig will be good together.'

  Bertelis grinned in response. His skin was a healthy bronze from the sun, his body tall and strong from years of w eapons practice and riding. His eyes were dark, his face lean and handsome, and his hair the colour of the sand that was said to lie upon the beaches on the coast. He looked every inch the epitome of Bretonnian knighthood.

  'Come, brother,' said Calard, 'let us go home.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SUN WAS shining brightly as the pair of knights rode towards Castle Garamont.

  Pennants flying Castellan Lutheure's colours whipped in the wind from atop the parapets. It w as a fine, strong fortress, built in the time of the first ruler of Garamont, nine generations earlier. Constructed from locally-quarried pale stone, the castle glow ed a w arm rose colour in the rising, morning sun.

  Perched atop a rocky bluff, the castle w as the highest visible structure for miles around. The location of the fortress had been carefully chosen, both for its defensive value and for the dominating aspect it held over the surrounding countryside. The approach from the south w as gently sloping, though the northern side of the castle dropped aw ay sharply, falling hundreds of feet down to the spraw ling village of peasant hovels clustered in the shadows beneath it. To those lowborn and living w ithin the squalid abodes, the castle looming over them was an ever-present reminder of the strength and power of the lord of Garamont.

  The w alls of the castle were tall and thick, and scores of men-at-arms stood sentry upon the battlements, day and night. Seven tall towers w ere interspersed along the crenellated walls, three of them topped by sharply tapered spires. An eighth tow er, grimly dubbed Morr's Rest, had been part of the original construction, but its upper section had collapsed some five generations past. Though the repair of the tow er had been started on separate occasions by tw o successive lords of Garamont, fatal accidents among the w ork crews had postponed the work indefinitely, and now it was part of the local superstitions of those too simple to know better. The fact that for five generations the ruined tow er had been the roost of countless ravens merely added to the superstitions, and it w as perhaps for these creatures that the tow er was named.

  The pow erful gatehouse that led into the castle faced to the south, looking out tow ards the Forest of Chalons in the distance, and it was from this direction that Calard and Bertelis approached. Peasant militiamen doffed their caps and iron-rimmed helmets as the young nobles cantered past, ignoring them. Other peasants, bearing goods and produce on their hunched backs, scurried off the muddy roadw ay leading to the castle, bobbing their heads respectfully. Mangy dogs, emaciated and gaunt, trotted behind them, sniffing around the cuts of meat that w ere being delivered to the castle kitchens.

  The brothers cantered across the thick wooden drawbridge spanning the deep ditch below . At the base of the ditch w as a muddy mire of reeds, and pools of stagnant w ater. A decade earlier, Calard and Bertelis had played there, catching tadpoles and frogs, ambushing and challenging startled wayfarers attempting to cross the bridge and enter the castle.

  Cantering beneath the mighty portcullis, they passed through the arched gateway and into the dimly-lit passage leading through the gatehouse. Murder holes and arrow slits eyed their progress. The gatehouse was probably the most defensible part of the castle, and it doubled as the barracks for those peasants given the honour of becoming Garamont's men-at-arms.

  Passing back into the light on the far side of the gatehouse, the knights errant angled their steeds across the muddy expanse towards the stables. The area w as teeming w ith activity, hundreds of peasants rubbing shoulders with each other, and bustling about w ith livestock and carts piled high with freshly harvested crops. The air was filled with their crude shouts, mixing with the din of braying animals. The stink of the peasants and the animals w as strong.

  Men caked in mud and other more offensive substances pulled their donkeys and bovine charges out of the w ay of the young knights. Dirty children laughed and chased a group of piglets through the crowd, followed by a red-faced man w ho was sw earing loudly. He apologised profusely when he saw Calard and his brother, bow ing his head, before resuming the chase.

  'I loathe harvest-tide,' said Bertelis, his noble face tw isted in a grimace as the sounds and smells of the unw ashed peasants surged over them. 'Get out of the w ay, peasants!' he shouted impatiently.

  The pair entered the stables, and young stablehands rushed to take their reins. The lads w ere peasant-born, but their faces w ere at least marginally cleaner than those outside, and their backs w ere straight; only the best w ere chosen to tend to the horses of Garamont. The knights handed their lances to waiting servants and dismounted. Before the armour
ed horses w ere led aw ay, Calard removed his right gauntlet and w alked around the back of Gringolet, running his hand down the destrier's right, hind leg. The horse obediently lifted the long limb, and Calard poked at its hoof.

  'Have the farrier come up and see to this shoe,' he ordered, stepping away from the horse. One of the peasants nodded his head in response and sent a stable boy running out to the blacksmith's w ith a curt command.

  Calard found Bertelis smiling slightly when he turned around.

  'What?' he asked. Bertelis shook his head.

  'You, dirtying your ow n hands. That's w hat these are for,' he said, indicating the stablehands w ith a w ave. Calard slapped his brother across the shoulders.

  'A knight of Bretonnia must know how to take care of his steed,' he said.

  'I know how to take care of a horse: tell a peasant to do it,' countered Bertelis.

  Calard's face w as serious as they stepped back into the sunshine, and looked up at the high w alls of the eight-sided keep that functioned as the family living quarters.

  'Come. We must see how father fares.'

  LORD LUTHEURE OF Garamont, Castellan of Bastonne, coughed heavily. Fluid rattled deep in his chest, and his whole frame was rocked by the hacking cough, his expression pained. A serving maid held a silk handkerchief to his lips, and when it w as removed there w ere flecks of blood upon it.

  'You should be in bed,' scolded Lady Calisse gently, placing her hand upon her husband's shoulders. 'The drafts down here do you no good.'

  Lutheure pushed aw ay his breakfast plates, his meal unfinished. Hovering servants instantly cleared them aw ay.

  'I am the lord of Garamont. I w ill not huddle under the covers in my bedchambers during the daylight hours being spoon-fed by servants,' he said darkly.

  His w ife sat quietly, her delicate hands folded on her lap, but he could feel her eyes boring into him. A pretty young serving girl entered the room bearing a steaming goblet upon a silver tray, and Lutheure w inced as an acrid, foul stench reached his nostrils.

  Without a w ord, she placed the tray upon the table.