The Devil's Acolyte by Michael Jecks

Author:Michael Jecks [Jecks, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective, General, Medieval/Mystery, Fiction
ISBN: 9780747267256
Google: IYUjnwEACAAJ
Publisher: Headline Book Publishing
Published: 2002-10-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

After the previous day’s rainy beginning, it had been a relief to wake to bright sunlight. Simon hadn’t needed the prodding finger of the novice to wake him, for he could feel the warmth of the sun reaching out to him even through his closed eyes. Lazily, he had opened them to find himself gazing at Sir Tristram’s bare body. The knight had swung open the rough board shutter and was staring down into the yard. Seeing him thus naked in the morning light, Simon was surprised at the number of wounds on his body.

There were two star-shaped scars, both on his upper left shoulder, which looked as though they must have been made by arrows. The great barbed arrows of old would have done far more damage, but the modern ‘prickers’, designed to penetrate mail, were little more than square-sectioned steel needles. Simon had seen other men wounded by these arrows, and they always had this characteristic star-shape. On his flank there was a great gouge lined with sore-looking red flesh that probably resulted from a sword or axe blow; his left upper arm bore a long, raking slash; both legs were mottled with scars, some fine, thin ones like cobwebs, others deep-looking stab wounds or slashes, as though he had been in a hundred different fights with all different types of weapon.

Simon couldn’t help but let a low whistle pass from his lips, and Sir Tristram whirled round.

There were many knights whom Simon had met who had been suave and silky in movement as well as tone, men who would turn elegantly upon hearing someone behind them. Others, like his old friend Baldwin himself, were strangely precise in their movements. These were the masters of defence, men who had trained all their childhood and youth, men who could pick up any weapon and use it effectively, men who could fight as though dancing, while holding a seven-pound sword in one hand as if it was as light as a willow-wand.

This was not one such. Sir Tristram spun around like a man expecting death and the devil. His face was pulled into a snarl, his teeth bared, his whole being transfigured. From a tall man at a window he became a crouching, bestial creature, one hand forward, the other held back, ready to punch. But there was something missing. It was as though Sir Tristram had seen knights fight and knew how to emulate them, but lacked their skill; a man might, after all, pick up a hammer and beat at a piece of metal, but it took a smith’s experience to bend that metal to his will.

Then, in an instant, Sir Tristram had reverted to a tall man at a window. He stood again with a faintly sneering smile. ‘Aha, Bailiff. I didn’t realise you were awake.’

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Simon said carefully. ‘But I noticed your scars, and I was surprised to see so many.’

Sir Tristram’s face relaxed. He almost seemed to be listening to voices Simon couldn’t hear.

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