Imperial Fire (12 page)

Gorka read his mind. ‘Forget it. You’d still be paying off mail or scale by the time you retire. The only way you’ll come by decent armour is by stripping it off the enemy.’

The armourer’s assistants had disappeared into the bowels of the depot. One came back with a short recurved bow, a canvas case and three coiled bowstrings. The second with a lance and two javelins. The third with a shield and sword.

Gorka picked up the bow. ‘Ever used one of these?’

‘Not a bow shaped like that.’

‘It’s Turkish, designed to be shot from horseback.’

Lucas opened his mouth.

So did Gorka. ‘Got something to say?’

‘I wasn’t expecting to be deployed as an archer. The Normans don’t —’

Gorka was chest to chest with him in a flash. ‘We don’t fight like Normans. Every man in our squadron must be skilled with sword, bow and lance.’

‘Sir.’

‘No need to “sir” me. Call me “boss”.’

‘Yessir… boss.’

Gorka demonstrated how the bow fitted into its case. ‘You keep the cover waterproofed with wax and tallow.’ He patted a pocket on the side. ‘Strings go in there. No excuse for a limp bow or slack string.’

The armourer took hold of Lucas’s right hand, examined the thumb and emptied a box of curious-looking horn rings onto the counter. A projection stuck out from the thick bands, curved on one side, flat on the other. He selected one and twisted it onto Lucas’s thumb. Too large, apparently, the next too small. He tried three more before finding one that fitted neatly behind the first thumb joint.

‘Your archery instructor will show you what it’s for,’ said Gorka. ‘Don’t lose it.’

Lucas regarded the scabbarded sword, the haft wrapped with scuffed and sweat-stained leather, the pommel a roughly worked iron finial. He looked for permission to handle it, and when Gorka nodded, he drew the blade. A workaday weapon that had seen a lot of use, the metal pitted and nicks along both edges. Even so, he grinned as he angled it to the light. He took up the circular shield, leather-covered on a wicker base, the front painted with a white falcon on a field of green. It looked magnificent. He fitted his hand in the grip and took guard.

‘You keep your equipment spick and span,’ Gorka said. ‘Centurion Josselin holds a weekly inspection and woe betide if you fall short. You can start by polishing your helmet. And I see some of the stitching on the corselet is working loose. And those boots could do with a polish. Pick your kit up later. Now we’ll see about a horse.’

‘Why isn’t Aiken with us?’ Lucas asked on the way to the stables.

‘Trooper Aiken’s outfit was sent on ahead.’

Of course. Vallon would have supplied Aiken with brand-new equipment at his own expense, all of the best quality and of Aiken’s choosing. The sour thought dissolved as Lucas approached the stables. Please God, he prayed, don’t let them give me a broken-down nag.

The chief groom led them between two lines of stalls, Lucas breathing in the peppery scents of horse flesh, dung and tack. He hardly knew where to look. There wasn’t a horse in the stable that he didn’t admire. The groom stopped at a stall housing a dappled grey gelding. One look at its head, its full, intelligent eyes, and Lucas knew he hadn’t been given second best. He looked over the stall and uttered a sort of moan before turning with shining eyes.

‘For me?’

Gorka sniffed. ‘The general says you’re not a bad rider. His name’s Aster. He’s five years old. Treat him well.’

Lucas stroked Aster’s muzzle and murmured his name. The horse blew in his face and his heart brimmed over. He spoke to cover his emotions. ‘Do the officers ride stallions?’

Gorka snorted. ‘Our horses are our friends. Unlike the Normans, we don’t want to be forever fighting the brutes.’

On the walk back to his quarters, Lucas summoned up the courage to ask a question. ‘Sir… boss… can I visit the stables in my free time?’

Gorka glanced at him. ‘Free time? You won’t see any of that, laddie.’

If that day was anything to go by, he was right. Lucas fell into bed long after the other troopers had given up their games, having spent an hour with his Greek tutor and two hours polishing his sword and helmet. Aiken slept next to him and over his bed hung a magnificent suit of armour.

‘I could help you with your Greek,’ Aiken said.

Lucas stirred from a doze. ‘I can manage.’

‘Do you like your horse?’

‘He’s not bad,’ Lucas said. ‘Better than I expected.’

‘Hero bought him for you.’

‘Hero? Why would he do that?’

‘He’s kind. He’s the main reason why I decided to come.’

Lucas sank back. ‘Do you know what we’re doing tomorrow?’

‘They’re going to test our weapon skills.’ Aiken shivered. ‘I’m dreading it.’

After reveille and ablutions, Aimery inspected his unit before they headed for the mess hall and a breakfast of millet porridge, wheat bread and watered wine. Then they swept and scrubbed their quarters under Gorka’s merciless scrutiny.

‘Bring your weapons,’ he said. ‘Today I’ll find out how much grief you’re going to cause me.’ He led the way to the exercise ground and halted in a space surrounded by dozens of other soldiers practising their martial skills. ‘First, a sparring session with practice swords.’ He frowned. ‘Did I say something funny?’

Lucas knew he was taking a risk. ‘I’ve already been tested against Aiken and trounced him. I should face a sterner match.’

Aiken reddened under Gorka’s scrutiny. ‘It’s true.’

Gorka turned to Lucas with a dreamy smile. ‘So you fancy yourself as a swordsman.’

‘General Vallon himself said I showed promise.’

Gorka allowed himself a moment of malign speculation before scanning the arena. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Sergeant Stefan, I wonder if you could spare a moment.’

A hard-bitten little Serb wandered up, practice sword resting over his shoulder. Gorka cocked a finger at Lucas. ‘Our new trooper thinks he needs tougher opposition than his spear-companion can offer. Perhaps you’d oblige.’

Stefan smiled a pleasant smile and raised his sword. Lucas took guard.

A blur of movement and he was looking cross-eyed down Stefan’s blade, the point arrested a few inches short of his throat.

‘I wasn’t ready,’ he said.

Gorka laughed. ‘All Stefan’s opponents would have said that if they were still alive to speak.’

Again Lucas took guard. Stefan crooked his brows in enquiry. Lucas nodded and shifted from foot to foot. This time he almost made contact with Stefan’s sword before the blade threatened his head again.

He skipped back. ‘It’s not a style I’m used to.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Gorka. ‘Not his style.’ He lowered his head and shouted into Lucas’s face. ‘The enemy doesn’t ask what style of swordplay you prefer before engaging in combat.’ He smiled his evil smile. ‘Still, the lad’s young. Sergeant, let him fight the way he’s used to.’

What followed was abject humiliation. Lucas managed a few counters but was always one move behind and on the back foot. Stefan landed two blows to the ribs that hurt even through the padding, followed up with a blow to the helmet that made Lucas see stars, and finished by chopping Lucas’s wrist with a clip that numbed him to the elbow.

Almost weeping from pain and shame, he picked up his fallen sword.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Gorka. ‘That was a pleasure to watch.’ He squinted at Lucas. ‘In future, you do exactly what I tell you.’ He turned on his heel. ‘Now collect your horses and we’ll try you with lance and javelin.’

Lucas partly redeemed himself in these exercises, which involved throwing a javelin at a straw dummy from horseback and aiming a lance at the quintain. Aiken showed no aptitude at all, unable to strike either target even at a canter, while Lucas hit the quintain at his first pass and only missed by a whisker with the javelin.

Gorka regarded him with narrowed eyes. ‘Again, at an extended canter.’

Lucas hit both targets. Aiken took a blow in the back from the quintain as it spun round from his half-hearted effort.

Gorka put his hands on his hips. ‘This time at a gallop.’

Lucas trotted off, turned, patted Aster’s neck and spurred him into a charge. He drew back the javelin and launched, the point taking the target square in the chest. He trotted back to pick up the lance, swung round and once more galloped up to the quintain, hitting it with a force that spun it twice on its axis.

Gorka eyed him. ‘You’ve done that before.’

‘Many times, but only in my imagination.’

Next it was archery under the supervision of a Pecheneg called Gan, a horse nomad recruited from the steppes north of the Danube. He wore his hair in long braids behind his ears and his eyes were crescent slivers above padded cheekbones. He didn’t speak French and Gorka had to translate.

‘Show Gan your draw,’ he told the recruits.

Lucas demonstrated. He sneaked a glance at Gorka. ‘I’m used to a heavier bow.’

‘You need a light bow to develop the correct technique. You have to learn a new method of releasing. Have you got your thumb ring?’

Lucas fished it out. Gan produced one of his own and demonstrated how to use it, sliding it over the first thumb joint with the flat side of the projection facing back. Gorka relayed instructions. ‘See how he hooks the ring onto the string and holds it in place by gripping the tip of his thumb with his forefinger. That way the string doesn’t touch the finger – less strain and no finger-pinch, meaning greater accuracy.’

Three times Gan went through the sequence of preliminary moves before releasing the arrow. He swivelled at the hip, drawing with the bow above his head, then in an extension of the move, he lowered it and loosed without apparent aim at a butt about sixty yards away. Lucas blinked as it struck, blinked again as Gan shot another arrow. Nor did the archer stop there. In the space of a minute he released twelve arrows with breathtaking fluency. Every arrow hit the mark.

‘Gan’s as accurate on horseback at full gallop,’ said Gorka. He stepped back. ‘Now you try.’

The technique seemed pretty basic, yet no matter how hard Lucas concentrated, he couldn’t master the knack. With his first few attempts, he couldn’t even string the arrow. It kept dropping off. When he did draw, he couldn’t time the release. On his sixth attempt, the bowstring caught the tip of his thumb, ripping off the end of his nail and leaving the nail bed bleeding.

‘You’re releasing too slow,’ said Gorka. ‘Imagine you’re flicking a marble.’

By the time the session was over, Lucas had taken the skin off his left wrist and his best shot hadn’t come within five feet of the target. What made it more galling was the fact that Aiken landed two arrows on the mark.

‘It takes practice,’ said Gorka. ‘Practice, practice, practice.’ He nodded at something Gan said and translated. ‘If you ignore archery for one day, it will desert you for ten.’

Walking back to the dormitory, Lucas vowed to master all branches of weaponry. He knew he would never achieve the standard of the Turkish archers who had drawn their first bows at the age of five, but he would do his best.

‘You impressed Gorka with your equestrian skills,’ Aiken said.

Lucas decided he could afford a concession. ‘You handled the bow better.’

Aiken shrugged. ‘I’ve been using the thumb ring for years. Another week and you’ll have left me behind.’

‘You don’t seem to care.’

‘Not really.’

‘Then why did you join the cavalry?’

‘Because Beorn wished it and because Vallon insists I honour those wishes.’

‘What would you prefer to be doing?’

‘Studying philosophy and natural science.’

‘You’re weird.’

That was as close as Lucas came to unbending with Aiken. Over the following days he grew increasingly irked by the fact that though he surpassed Aiken in every branch of arms, Gorka overlooked the English youth’s cack-handed deficiencies and treated him with a respect that bordered on deference – all because he was the adopted son of their commander. Meanwhile, he pounced on every mistake that Lucas made.

Rancour spilled over on the morning Josselin was due to inspect his century. Lucas pulled on his shabby armour. Not only was it second-hand, but it looked as if it had been stripped from a battle casualty, with two obstinate stains he was sure were blood. He picked up his helmet, eyeing the fresh dent Stefan had inflicted. All the polishing in the world wasn’t going to make it look like anything other than a stew-pot. When he’d finished dressing, he watched with sour envy as Aiken donned his outfit. Over a patterned quilt undercoat he pulled on a corselet of lamellar armour made up of overlapping blued steel plates, the rounded ends facing upwards. He fitted shoulder guards and arm plates.

‘That lot’s wasted on you,’ Lucas said.

Gorka stuck his head around the door. ‘Aren’t you ready yet? There’ll be hell to pay if you’re late.’

Red-faced and sweating, Aiken sat on his bed struggling to strap iron greaves to his calves. He threw Lucas a desperate look. ‘Lend a hand, will you?’

Lucas almost refused. Let him be late for the inspection and suffer the consequences. With ill grace, Lucas knelt and buckled on the greaves. ‘I suppose Vallon paid for all this.’

‘With the money I inherited from my father.’

‘I don’t understand why he would waste so much gold on someone with so little military aptitude.’

‘It’s because I lack soldierly skills that I need the armour. It’s the only thing protecting me.’

‘And you expect me to fight at your side.’

Aiken looked down, smiling. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t rely on me. I’ll probably run away as soon as I see the enemy.’

Lucas tightened the last strap with a savage jerk. ‘You even boast of your cowardice.’

The
dekarchos
heard him. Aimery strolled up, a musing expression on his face. His thoughts always seemed to be miles away. ‘You’re looking fit today, trooper.’

Lucas scrambled to attention. ‘Sir.’

‘Have you seen much of our beautiful city?’

‘Not a lot, sir. I only spent one night in it and somebody tried to kill me.’

‘I wonder why I’m not surprised. Could it be that you have a knack for putting people’s backs up?’