The Broken Knight

The Broken Knight

Emmylou Kotzé

Pink Hydra Press

2024

Copyright

The Broken Knight

First edition e-book 2019

This edition revised 2024

Paperback: 978-0-7961-6715-6

e-book: 978-0-7961-6716-3

© Emmylou Kotzé 2019; 2024

www.amphipolitan.com

Pink Hydra Press

www.thepinkhydra.com

All rights reserved.

The central shield artwork of the front cover was created by andreykuzmin/123RF and all rights thereto are reserved by the creator and 123rf.com.

Contents

Chapter 1: The Golden Girl

Chapter 2: The Christian Wedding

Chapter 3: The Sea-Demon

Chapter 4: The Faery Sword

Chapter 5: The Burning Town

Chapter 6: The River Queen

Chapter 7: The Deserters

Chapter 8: The Dark Priest

Chapter 9: The Secret Pool

Chapter 10: The Sword’s Legacy

Chapter 11: The Lost Lover

About the Author

Illustrations

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Chapter 1: The Golden Girl

I think I hate rain.

Not for the chill nor the clouds that bring it forth, not for the damp, nor even the crash of the pagan thunder-god’s hammer in the sky. The chill breeze refreshes me; the smell of the world becomes clean and cool and, of course, it is refilling my empty waterskins as I sit loathing it.

But I hate what happens in the rain. In the rain, I remember.

What a tragic life this person I was must have led, when his memories return to him only as the sky weeps. And yet, not all of these memories were built from pain...

The best of them is a memory of a young girl with brown hair in a walled garden, under a gnarled and sprawling apple tree. She stands with her arms stretched out, and the raindrops fill her hands as she laughs. They dye the sleeves of her grey woollen dress black; they dance around her bare, wet feet.

I cannot bring to mind the features of her face, nor what she is to me.

​I feel her eyes on me, I remember her laugh, her hands and feet – but I would not know her if I met her. Somehow, this is what disturbs me most of all.

To be sure, other visions of the past are more unpleasant by far. I remember swinging a heavy, rusty axe with such anger that there were tears in my eyes, and the groan of a great oak tree as it crashed to the ground. I remember riding along a muddy road at the head of a horde of men, the dull ache from long travel on horseback settling in my thighs and lower back, the stiffness of gauntleted hands in the damp and cold. I remember a wooden-walled fort bursting into flame, horses slipping in the mud and screaming in fear, the inexorable fire burning steadily even as the rain hammered down. I remember dying men shouting for me.

The name they shouted – I didn’t even remember that name until someone else told me what it was. When the stableboy found me lying bloody, half-conscious, at the bottom of the dyke that encircled his lord’s ruined hall.

‘Thane Wilhelm,’ he whimpered, pale eyes staring through the dirt that darkened his face. ‘You’re alive.’

Alive I was, but the lord I had fought for, along with every one of my own men, was dead. His thralls had scattered into the fields, returning later to loot the battlefield. I was a thane – a landed warrior in service to a higher lord, the stableboy had to explain to me, a concept I could barely recall. I had a fort of my own, with soldiers and lands, peasants working the fields, other freemen answering to my authority, but not near here. Somewhere else, on the sea, a tiny island off a windswept shore far north. That island might as well be across the great western ocean, for all I knew. I could remember none of it. The grubby lad was my only source of information.

‘Did I have a wife waiting for me in this holding?’ That was the first thing I asked.

The boy looked down at his bare feet before answering. ‘My lord – your lady – she’s dead. I heard you tell m’lord Egbert, once. I – I’m sorry.’

‘Oh,’ I replied hollowly. I had had a wife, and she had died, and I didn’t remember her. ‘Did I – I mean, do I – have children?’

‘Not that I’ve ever heard tell of, my lord.’

The rain darkens the sky, bringing with it an evil wind that sets me to shivering and barrages my mind with strange new memories so that I cannot think. A vision of a lady laughs up at me, feathery black hair tickling my neck as she languishes in my arms. I am staring out into a snowstorm from the safety of a cold stone hall, waiting anxiously for a shadow of my father to appear against the mist. My back is hunched over a horse’s withers, bunched muscles moving beneath my hands with the motion of her gallop, the two of us alone in a world of howling wind and torrential rain. My hands are red with blood, my own blood... I slowly sink to my knees and fall asleep with a dull red pain in my chest.

Still, what haunts me most is the face of the little girl I cannot remember. Is hers the face of a childhood playmate, a little sister? Or even, may God be good, a daughter of my own?

You have no known family, they told me when they bade me flee the ruined fort. The stableboy and the old seneschal we found both said so. By all accounts, your father and mother died many years ago. There was no brother marching with you at the head of your host, nor sister sending succour throughout the endless campaigns. If rumour can be believed, you never spent much time in your own hall; you built yourself a reputation of prowess upon the field of battle, fighting for one lord against another all through the years. All across the lands of the Angles and the Saxons. Go home, Thane Wilhelm. Go back to your island, and raise there what you will. The defenders of this fort are gone. None remain of your own warriors. Go home. Go to heal.

Go home, they said, but none wait for me there. There will be no dutiful wife, weaving tapestries in her lonely hours without me, praying for her husband to deliver her from the advances of greedy suitors. There will be no loving son who sets out to find his long-missed father, fetching him home to tend his lands and family. Dare I saunter into this alien world, come to my own holdings like a ghost to trouble joy, remembering nothing, passing over loyal servants I have known all my life, asking for directions to the dining hall where I supped as a little boy?

Memories haunt me, showing me nothing useful, resolving nothing. They play on to the clash of steel in the background, and the moans of dying men to the left and right.

I dare not even contemplate the violence that Thane Wilhelm was capable of. He lived by the sword and would have died by it but for – but for what? How did I escape with only a minor wound on the head, when my men all perished in sword and flame, and remain as food for the crows? How did I survive? Why did I survive?

—————

Out in the soggy forest, somebody screamed.

Will paused with his hand on the cloth he had been using to polish the flat of his sword. The tiny fire he had built gently licked up the giant trees that formed the walls of his dry nook, leaving stripes of soot where it had kissed. Every now and then a drop of rain landed on the fire from above, making it crackle and hiss.

Long moments passed, and Will decided that the scream must have been his imagination. Perhaps he was hearing things, recollections of blood-curdling screams from memories long ago.

He listened through the drumming of the rain. Were those human footfalls he heard, off to the eastern edge of the wood? Raised voices?

Moving purposefully, Will picked up his sword and strode into the rain, following the distant sounds he could not ignore. No-one should be out in the woods on a night like this, and certainly not with such a commotion.

Through the trees, he espied the light of flickering torches, and now he could clearly hear the raised voices of the mob, just as he stumbled into the clearing.

They were poor men, he saw, peasant farmers or village tradesmen to judge by their clothing. A few women hovered at the edges of the mob, carrying the torches, their faces pale and vindictive. The leaders of the mob had just pounced upon a struggling figure who was wrapped up in rags like a leper, a child or woman by its size.

Will strode forward, carried by nothing more than an instinct to stop the violence.

‘Stop!’ he commanded, waving his sword, and the way everybody came to attention at the shout was intensely gratifying. Three men froze holding the ragged victim, one with his arm around its neck, the other two grasping an arm each. The victim wriggled energetically, but their grip was relentless.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Will demanded over the pattering of the rain. He pointed his sword at the three ringleaders. ‘What are you doing with this child?’

‘No child,’ the man in the middle said, and pulled at a grey hood that obscured most of his victim’s features. Will scowled. The grubby face beneath was female, perhaps as old as eighteen or nineteen. She remained silent, but her dark blue eyes burned defiance.

‘She’s witched!’ shouted a woman shrilly, and stepped closer to Will. ‘A heathen outsider with old ways – with evil ways.’ She spat at Will’s feet in disgust, and ineptly made the sign of the Christian cross with her left hand. ‘She’s used magic against our village, killed the pigs, made men die of terrible diseases!’

‘This ends tonight!’ exclaimed the man holding the girl’s left arm. A ragged cheer went up from those not completely deafened by the driving rain.

‘Aye,’ another man shouted. ‘And she’s a thief. We caught her red-handed just now, stealing from honest tradesmen in the night.’

Will’s scowl deepened. ‘That’s no reason to chase this girl down and murder her in the woods,’ he said coldly.

There were angry mutters all around him, and his hand clenched harder on his sword. Someone shouted, ‘But she’s a pagan!’ Agreements rose in a shrill chorus.

‘And so were we all, once, pagans!’ Will shouted back at them. ‘Is there a priest amongst you tonight?’

There was a long, sullen pause.

‘He’s sleeping,’ one of the women replied at last.

‘You have no right to deliver divine justice without a priest’s blessing,’ Will hazarded.

‘Well,’ one of the men said at once, ‘we’ll have to wake him, then!’

Suddenly, the girl’s eyes changed. She looked straight at Will, and her expression shot through his soul. She was alone here, as was he. Her gaze was pleading, desperate. She did not utter a word, but she clearly knew exactly what was to become of her, if he did nothing.

Will was her only hope, and they both knew it.

Quickly he moved forward, and his body remembered a thousand like experiences, instinct taking the place of the conscious memories he had mislaid. The sword seemed to become part of him, melting into his arm; it felt almost as though it were whispering to him, a steel song softer than the falling rain. It was as if he had rediscovered his life’s purpose.

He laid the edge of his sword against the middle man’s neck. The man froze and his eyes bulged as he felt the cold steel kiss his skin. The two holding the girl by her arms made squeaking noises and fell away as fast as they could.

Will grinned dangerously. The rain was already a damper on the spirits of a mob like this, and they had not expected to meet justice upon their dread crusade. Their fear took the atmosphere of horror and vengeance away, and transformed them back into a collection of wet, frightened village folk with no real weaponry between them. They registered Will’s imposing height, caught a glance at his unkempt brown beard and hard dark eyes, and fell back, fearing and respecting him.

‘Let the girl go,’ Will commanded, and the man shakily released her, fright leaking from his eyes. The girl collapsed on her feet as she was released, but Will caught her deftly. He heard her surprised intake of breath as he easily supported her weight.

She hesitated, gripping his arm. Then, unexpectedly, she wrapped both of her arms around his waist and leaned her full weight on him, breathing shallowly. She was soaked through, and shivered like a leaf.

Will self-consciously put his arm around her shoulders to support her. Anger burned in him, and suddenly he would have liked nothing so much as to cut a bloody swathe through these people, these men who judged what they did not know of, and these women whose eyes were always moving and whose mouths were always busy, condemning outsiders with a single word, dismissing the wretched and needy with a single haughty glance. They disgusted him. He could almost imagine that the blade that was now part of his hand thirsted for their blood.

But they were no danger to him, and he lowered the sword.

The world returned, leaving him blinking and wondering what evil spell had briefly engulfed his mind. The faces before him were masks of terror. Not adversaries, but victims. Ordinary people, who cowered in fear before him.

‘Get out of my sight,’ Will spat. The leader of the mob turned and ran without looking back, followed by several of his fellows. Others remained, looking uncertainly at Will and the girl, who remained completely silent and motionless.

‘Get out of my sight,’ Will repeated. ‘All of you!’

No-one moved, and Will’s heart sank to his stomach. Then a burly man spoke tentatively. ‘What about that which she stole?’

Cold fingers pressed into Will’s hand. He looked down at the girl, who was hiding her face. He held out a small purse, heavy with coins. ‘Is this what she stole?’

The man gave a nod. Will tossed the purse to him.

‘There,’ he said. He looked around at the pale, silent faces. ‘What’s yours has been recovered. It is finished. The girl will come with me.’

Some of those faces looked as though they might have liked to dispute his statement, but the rain was pouring and the torches were burning low. Wandering through the dark woods in search of a vagrant with a sword was not something these simple folk wanted to try. At home there was warm food and drink and a fire in the hearth. One by one, they turned to go home.

The woman who had made the sign of the cross lingered to the last.

‘Beware, fallen warrior,’ she said to Will. Her pinched face and hollow eyes were cadaverous in the guttering torchlight. ‘The demon gods of this land are restive, and evil comes to walk in these last days.’ Her eyes settled malevolently on the slight figure of the girl. ‘Lures of the flesh are the means to undo the servants of the true Christian faith.’

With that, she turned sharply and joined the ghostly trail of little lights snaking back, leaving Will alone with the rain and a cold, crying girl in his arms.

—————

Anglo-Saxon thanes and athelings, when they rode to war, did so with a full armament of weapons. They carried round shields and long spears, and wore swords on their belts. They dressed in mail and boiled leather for protection. When travelling, they rode fast, highly-bred horses too precious to charge into battle.

A landed warrior of thane status required a contingent of servants to help him maintain his armour, keep his weapons sharpened, and tack up his horse with the regalia of his ancestors. He would never travel without at least half a dozen companions, to reinforce his noble status and help guard against outlaws. Horses were expensive, and so was anything made from good leather or steel. A steady flow of careless mounted warriors past his hideout was all the average bandit required to live comfortably.

When taken into custody by one of these elite warriors, one might reasonably expect a cosy campsite, perhaps with gay tents, goodly company, and plenty of food and drink.

Will had nothing of the sort. His own horse had been lost on the field of battle, and the old gelding they’d given him to escape on he’d sold in the first town he reached. Most of his armour had gone the same way, although he had kept his boots, chainmail tunic, and golden arm-rings. At the time of his departure, he had had a sword by his side and, when he checked, three knives in holsters at various places upon his person. Two of the three knives he had sold; the third and sharpest he had kept along with the sword.

Newly affluent in a busy town, Will had discovered the first thing about Thane Wilhelm that truly disgusted him. He’d walked past a tavern, caught the rich scent of golden beer, and been seized with such a longing to go inside and try some that he’d had to force himself to turn round and walk the other way down the lane, bombarding himself as he went with a series of stern admonitions. Sensibly, he had purchased instead a supply of provisions, bedding, fresh breeches and underwear, and a sack with carrying straps. It was hardly a lord’s armoury, but it was more than what the average Welsh slave owned, and he felt he should be grateful for that.

Will stood with his back to the girl as she stripped off her sodden rags and wrapped herself in his only blanket. The night was chilly with the late summer rain, and she shivered as she tucked the blanket beneath her chin. With her inside the bare shelter formed by the two tree trunks growing into each other, he was obliged to stand in the rain outside. The foliage above him broke the force of the raindrops, sending them down to gently fall on his face. He was already soaked to the skin, and the cold of the droplets numbed his cheeks.

The excitement of the night was rapidly deserting him now, and he wished he could shut his eyes. The soft hissing of the rain on the leaves above seemed to make out a melody. Earlier, he had thought he would never get to sleep, that the disjointed memories of his life past would plague him the night through. But the commotion in the woods and the arrival of the girl had chased them away, for now.

His eyes closed for a moment, and he swayed on his feet. Opening them once again, he realized that the girl had appeared silently beside him.

Where the hell did she come from? Will hoped she hadn’t noticed him jump.

She seemed insubstantial as a ghost as she stood there. His woollen blanket covered her from shoulder to knee, and she had made some sort of effort to tidy her hair. It was a dark, rich golden colour, a little past shoulder length, and more tangled than a nest of rodents. She looked shyly up at him.

‘Thank you for saving me,’ she said softly.

Will shrugged. ‘Some would have said that I had a duty to,’ he returned, offhandedly. ‘Would you like some food?’

The girl’s look of eagerness betrayed her thoughts instantly. She was nothing more than skin over bones, he thought, and gave her the best part of his bacon, bread, and dried fish. There were also apples, which he had picked earlier that day in the woods, and fresh water. She ate as though she were starving.

‘Is there a stream nearby?’ she asked him.

‘Beyond the tangle of berry bushes there, a few dozen strides,’ Will gestured. He had managed to place himself in between the fire and the outside world, leaning back on a tree trunk, and hoped that his hair would dry out sometime during the night. ‘Listen, I hope you have somewhere to go, because—’

‘Goldwine,’ the girl said.

‘What?’

‘My name. It’s Goldwine. You may call me Goldie, if you wish.’

‘I’m Will. I was saying—’ He hesitated. ‘Goldwine? That’s not the name of a peasant nor runaway thrall.’