The civil war is over. King Henry now rules a vast empire but even as he begins his rule the Scots steal slaves and cattle from the north of England and the Warlord’s son, William, recently returned from the Crusades has to rescue them. King Henry and the Warlord cannot rest either for one of his brothers rebels in Anjou. With the Welsh border aflame no one is allowed the luxury of a peaceful existence. War has come again and the Warlord, along with his son, must fight again, for England.
Although called the Welsh Marches the novel also deals with the Scottish raids just after King Henry ascended the throne and Geoffrey FitzEmpress’ rebellion and the siege of Chinon Castle. I have use the viewpoint of both Alfraed and William in this one. That will be my style for the next few Anarchy books.
Excerpt
The shield I bore had been freshly painted on the voyage from Jaffa. The gryphon was sharp and seemed to leap out. Alf had also brought my helmet. If Guy of Èze wore one then so would I. This would not be like a mêlée. There would be no unexpected blows from behind. It would be better to have a head protected by just a coif. It would allow better vision. My foe was there already. Robert of Nissa stood close by and they had brought twenty men at arms. We were outnumbered. It did not worry me. My men were better. Most of my men had lived off their wits in the Holy Land. They had existed amongst the worst of cut throats. If the Lombards tried anything they would see real warriors at work. There were also thirty or forty men and youths. They were spectators who were eager to see a fight to the death. Such events were rare. I saw money in their hands. There would be gambling on the outcome. It was ever thus. I suspected that almost a thousand years ago the same thing would have happened at the Roman gladiatorial games.
Guy of Èze did not bother with a helmet. I hefted my shield and made sure it was comfortable. Alf checked that the cross strap over my shoulder fitted well and did not snag on anything else. I drew my sword. Guy of Èze was eager for the fight. Younger than I was he bounced on the balls of his feet. From his stance, I guessed that he had learned his skills in the tourney rather than the battle field. I had fought in both and I knew which prepared a man for a combat to the death better.
“Good luck, lord.”
I smiled at Alf. “I have right on my side and skill, Alf. Luck is for those who have neither.” I moved towards my opponent.
As we closed Guy of Èze said, “When you are dead then your men will die and my uncle will have his slave again!”
I was confident that my men would be watching for treachery. I held my sword by the blade and kissed it like a cross, “Let God be my judge!”
I saw a flicker of something in the eyes of the Lombard. Was it fear? If it was not fear then it was doubt and that is never a good frame of mind for combat. I had not fought since Ascalon. I had had many years of combat and as soon as I brought up my shield my body seemed to know what to do. I placed my left foot forward and held my sword behind me. It was the stance I liked to use. It invited attack. Guy of Èze obliged. Seeing my defensive pose, he raised his sword and brought it down from on high. He was going for a quick kill. He was going for my head. He expected me to block with my shield. It would be a powerful blow and would drive me backwards. I spun around on my left foot so that the blow struck fresh air and then the ground. My men and the spectators cheered. I brought my own sword around in a sweep. He barely blocked it with his own shield. Off balance he stumbled backwards.
I stepped forward and raised my sword. He took the offensive again and swept his sword towards my middle. It cracked into my shield and my sword darted towards his eyes. It was a feint but he reacted. He stepped back and brought his shield up. I changed the stab to a sweep. In the heartbeat it took for him to realise the blow had not connected, my sword had scythed into his mail leggings. My blade came away bloody. It was not a serious wound. If it had been my leg I would not have even worried about it but this knight had little experience. The blood seeping down his leg worried him. He sought to end the combat quickly. It was a mistake.
He roared and charged at me holding his shield before him and swinging his sword over his head. I stepped quickly back and then, as he brought his sword down, punched into the sword with my shield. I held my sword horizontally and I saw the indecision. Was this a feint or a strike? I used body sway to fool him this time. I swayed to the left as though I was going to open my body up for a wide sweep and then swayed right and spun around. He was confused and he did not move. I brought my sword around as I turned quickly and it would have struck him in the back but that he managed to get his shield around in time to block the blow. It was a wild move and he tore free the strap which held his shield to his shoulder. He carried the weight now in his left hand.
It was time to end this. I moved quickly forward threatening him with a raised sword and then I smashed my shield into his chest. The blood from the wound in his leg now began to affect him and he was moving more slowly. His left arm lowered slightly and I saw my chance. I first brought my sword around in a wide sweep to smash into his shield. I used the flat of the blade so that I did not dull the edge. He reeled again and his arm dropped lower. This must have been one of the first times he had fought on foot. He was tiring. I feinted with my shield towards him. As he tried to block it with his own shield I swept my sword backhand. I hacked across his shoulders and then into his chest. Blood spurted. He reeled and both his arms dropped. I swung again at his neck. My blade went through the mail and into his throat. When the blood arced, I knew that it was a mortal wound. The contest was over. He lay prostrate on his back. Men cheered.
