Free The Ill-Made Knight by Christian Cameron Page B

wall.
    Then I was fighting for my life. For the first time.
    It never crossed my mind to try and kill any of them. I fought purely defensively for long heartbeats. The wall was only really wide enough for two men, and my back was covered. And from the first, they were looking over their shoulders, because Abelard was the next man on the wall after Amble, and Master Peter followed.
    I did well enough, if I may say so. After a long ten heartbeats or so, I chanced a counter-cut at the bolder of my two adversaries. I stepped back and avoided his blow easily, but suddenly I was in the fight, not just defending myself. Remember, I was big – bigger than these men.
    I slammed my buckler into the smaller Frenchman’s shield, and I probably broke his hand. It’s not in the books, but it’s a very effective blow, as any London boy knows.
    He dropped his guard, and my back-cut caught him in the jaw.
    Christ, how he screamed. I was appalled. He seemed to come apart under my blade.
    The other man looked over his shoulder, then back at me. He wasn’t being backed up by his mates – they were all throwing down their weapons, because Peter, the master archer, had put three feet of ash through one of them with his great war bow, and that was the end of them. My fellow flopped about a bit – I had severed most of his lower jaw.
    I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He screamed and tried to put his jaw back with his good hand.
    Ever seen a kitten dying in the street? Abandoned by its mother, mewing and mewing its pitiful way to death? Why is that so heartbreaking, when a jawless man you’ve cut down yourself is just a wretched sight?
    I didn’t wait for help. I cut his throat, and only then discovered I’d bent my worthless sword.
    That was all right, though, because now I had a dozen French swords to choose from.
    And a town to sack.
    We took so much coin out of that town that some of the professional soldiers openly suggested we turn about and march home. I got almost a hundred ecus. For a boy who’d never had three silver coins, it was a staggering amount.
    I was, by all accounts, the first man into the town. The Earl came and gave me his hand as a token of esteem. From that sack, I got two suits of clothes, a fine helmet and a French brigantine that was far better than John’s. It fit, too. So when I clasped arms with the Earl, I looked like a man-at-arms for the first time.
    Of course, I wasn’t. I was a cook’s boy. But in my mind, I was a great knight. I took several shifts and a fine kirtle for my whore, and she was pleasantly thankful to receive from me the looted goods of another French family, because that’s how it was in France that summer. I had good shoes, handsome ones that fit, which I lifted off the corpse of a baker that Abelard killed in the door of his shop. I should have been warned by that incident. The man was protesting – and not very hard – as Abelard stripped him of white flour and fresh bread, so Abelard just cut him down rather than listen to him – if you take my meaning.
    Anyway, I took his shoes.
    The next day we rode hard, and then we sacked another town. Now men were dropping loot they’d taken earlier to carry better loot.
    Peter, my master archer, gave me the best advice of my professional life at Vierzon. We’d just broken into the town – abandoned by the populace, who were cowering in the nearby royal fortress. I had a feather mattress on my back and I was eyeing an ivory inlaid chair I’d just dragged down from the second floor of a burgher’s house.
    Peter laughed. ‘Listen to me, Judas,’ he said.
    Christ, I hated that name.
    I paused. ‘Yes, Master?’
    ‘Coin. Only take coin. Best of all, gold. Nothing else is worth carrying.’ He smiled.
    I went back into the house and found a gold cross, a small gold cup and six more silver ecus. I left the rest.
    Listen, some men have fine memories for fights. I myself can remember most of my best passages of arms, and I’ll make the