The Hostility of Hanno: An Outlaw Chronicles short story
Read The Hostility of Hanno: An Outlaw Chronicles short story Online
Authors: Angus Donald
Angus Donald was born in 1965 and educated at Marlborough College and Edinburgh University. He has worked as a fruit-picker
in Greece, a waiter in New York and as an anthropologist studying magic and witchcraft in Indonesia. For twenty years, he
was a journalist in Hong Kong, India, Afghanistan and London. He is married to Mary, with whom he has two children, and he
now writes full time from home in Tonbridge, Kent.
Outlaw
Holy Warrior
King’s Man
Warlord
Short Stories
The Rise of Robin Hood
The Betrayal of Father Tuck
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-1-40552-887-0
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Angus Donald 2013
Excerpt from
Warlord
© Angus Donald 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form
or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
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London, EC4Y 0DY
An Hachette UK company
July 1191, Acre
A fat fly looped through the baked afternoon air of the small infirmary, buzzing contentedly and crossing and recrossing the
sun-filled space with an aimlessness that seemed almost insolent. The low room, although spotlessly clean, smelled faintly
of wine and blood, with a background hum of bodily corruption that had drawn the fly in through the high stone window despite
the swelter of noon and the iron bars that guarded that small square opening. Catching the delightful stench of overripe green
grapes, the fly hung almost motionless in the air for a moment and then swooped, dropping to a wooden table that had been
placed between two cots, each of which contained a slumbering man, and which were part of a row of eight simple wooden-framed
beds that stood against the outside wall.
On that late July day these two were the only injured men occupying the ward belonging to the Knight Hospitallers of St John,
one of several in their recently reclaimed commanderie in Acre. The city had been captured from the Saracens a couple of weeks
before by a huge Christian army – mostly under the command of Richard the Lionheart, King of England. It had been lightly
looted and was now packed to its high white walls with victorious, wine-filled Christian soldiery of many regions, most of
whom had never before set foot in a city of its quality; and its narrow, shady, tight-twisting alleyways, gold-clad mosques,
magnificent palaces and cool courtyards with tinkling fountains seemed somehow somnolent, bruised and resentful in the summer
heat, like a drunk after a three-day debauch.
The fellow in the left-hand cot was long-limbed and yellow-haired, slim and very young, perhaps no older than sixteen years.
His face was browned by the Mediterranean sun, regular in shape and roughly handsome with prominent cheekbones and a square,
determined chin. He was deeply asleep, his unlined forehead filmed with sweat, his closed eyelids twitching minutely as he
dreamed. Contrasting with his tanned face, his upper body, which was bared to the hips, was pale as buttermilk below the collar
bone, and despite his youth the slabs of musculature indicating a highly trained swordsman created sculpted planes and shadows
on his smooth chest and arms. His right wrist, which lay on the sweat-damp sheet that covered his modesty, was strapped tightly
with crisp white bandages. And his lower belly, too, just above the hip bone, was swathed in a thick snowy linen band.
The man in the second cot also appeared to be asleep. Almost in opposition to the young warrior, he was squat and thick-bodied;
an ill-made creature with heavy pads of hair on his chest, back and the curve of his shoulders, and yet with all the hair
on his head shaven away to expose a large knuckle-like skull. His hairy sweat-gleaming upper body was a mass of lumped muscle
and a truly spectacular collection of scars. His lower left leg had clearly been broken; it had been set, bound and secured
between two pieces of split pine, and tightly bandaged from knee to ankle.
The fly alighted on the wrinkled green skin of a lone grape, unhooked its mouth parts and began to feed on the sweet juice
of the fruit …
CRACK!
A hairy hand smashed flat on to the surface of the table, crushing grape and fly into a green mush, and creating a sharp noise
like a breaking tree limb. The blond warrior sat up with a jerk, and immediately wheezed with pain and clutched at his belly
bandages. He looked angrily over at the man in the other bed who was wiping the mess from his hand on to his linen sheet.
The shaven-headed man looked back at him with dark, iron-hard eyes. The two men stared at each other for some moments, neither
speaking, neither willing to break their gaze, the heat in the already baking infirmary seeming to intensify around them,
as if their locked eyes were generating a blaze all of their own. Finally, the younger man looked away, and flopped back down
on to his cot. The shaven-headed man spoke then, a harsh unintelligible cackle, neither French nor English, nor any kind of
local Latin – languages the young man might have comprehended. But it sounded very much like a deadly insult, or some vile
curse.
‘What did you just say?’ the young man said, sitting up once again though this time with a little more care for his wounded
middle. He had received a crossbow bolt to the lower side of his belly at a fierce battle in Cyprus more than two months before,
and while the wound was healing under the skilled care of the Order of Hospitallers, it was still tender when forced into
sudden movement.
He was answered by a tall old man in a grey robe, one of the brother infirmarians of the Order, not a knight, but a learned
physician and a skilled healer of men, who had appeared unobserved at the end of the shaven-headed man’s bed carrying a bowl
filled with bloody water. ‘Hanno asks if you maybe have some problem with him,’ the tall man said. ‘If I were you, young Alan
Dale, I would say no. And smile politely at the fellow as you do so.’
‘Why does he not speak a proper language?’ asked Alan, frowning at the hairy oaf, who was looking at him once again with a
hostile challenge in his eyes. ‘What is that foul barbarian tongue that he yaps away in, anyway?’
‘I doubt he thinks his native tongue is improper. He is from the German-speaking lands, as indeed am I, and while he does
not speak a pure form of the language – he is only a simple man from the deep forests of Bavaria, after all – I do not think
you should call him a barbarian to his face. He is a dangerous fellow, or so I’ve gathered from the accounts of his compatriots,
and not someone you should insult lightly.’
‘Well, tell him to stop glaring at me like a demon with a grudge, then.’
The physician sighed, said something long and authoritative to Hanno, and the Bavarian backwoodsman gave a short bark of laughter
and lay back in his cot.
‘You must make some allowances for him,’ said the physician. ‘Hanno is not a happy fellow; he is all alone in the world.’
‘With his demeanour, I can understand why his fellows shun him,’ said Alan.
‘No, you do not understand. His countrymen have left the Holy Land, they departed when Duke Leopold of Austria took ship for
his homeland, but Hanno was abandoned in our care for he was too sick with fever. There were half a dozen others of his kind
left in Acre, but they have been gathered unto the arms of our merciful Lord. Only he remains.’
***
Hanno felt the thrum of pain in his leg and tried to ignore it. But the sensation had swelled like some cruel music since
the early morning, rising into his body, up through his spine, and was now pulsing in the back of his head and across his
shoulders. The break was mending cleanly, the physicians had told him the day before, and he had been offered milk of the
poppy. But Hanno refused: he did not want his wits fuddled while the Chiavari brothers were on the loose in Acre. He would
rather be in pain than be in his grave. He reached a hand up above his head, sliding it under the limp canvas pillow, and
felt the wooden handle of the dagger that lay there. Given a heartbeat’s warning, he believed that he could make the Chiavaris,
or any of their hirelings, regret it if they came for him in the infirmary. And after what had passed, they’d come for him
one day, that was certain.
He had always slept lightly, even during the worst of the fever, and yet still he did his best to resist the pull of oblivion
as long as he could. But no man can go without sleep for ever, not even oak-tough Bavarians, and he had plunged into a vulnerable
dreamless state the day before for more than an hour – only to be harshly awakened by a huge blond fellow quacking away far
too loudly in the English tongue to the beardless stripling in the bed next to him. The man, a giant red-faced warrior in
a long green woollen cloak, bawled and guffawed, and banged on a large shield that he had brought for the wounded boy. He
seemed to be explaining what it was for: God in Heaven, were the soldiers of the Lionheart all imbeciles? Did they willingly
go into battle without knowing how to hold a shield?
The English boy had several visitors in green cloaks: a tall good-looking fellow with an easy air and strange silver-grey
eyes who seemed to be his lord, an excitable red-head not much older than the patient accompanied by an odd-looking woman
who seemed to be his mother, and a child-servant who brought food and drink and hovered around twisting his fingers in anxiety
for his master’s health. There was no peace to be had in the infirmary, Hanno grumbled to himself, no peace at all. He cursed
the bone of his leg that had been shattered by that woman’s blow, long before the fever took him. A shameful wound: laid low
by an ale slut. He had not expected that – he had thought he was fighting two men in that noisome drinking den in Tyre, and
he had dispatched them smartly enough, but the woman over whom he had taken up arms in the first place sided with the Chiavaris
and snapped his tibia with an iron cooking pot when his back was to her. Which only proved what he had always said: a man
could always improve; a man should strive for perfection in his art, but he must also be as ready to learn as he was to teach.
She was a fine woman, after all, well worth fighting for – fat as butter and with breasts like the full udders of a prize
milch cow, and she brewed a decent ale as well. Shame she was dead now, really. Shame he had to kill her. But what could you
do … Just bad luck. Bad luck, too, to be pinned here helplessly by that God-damned leg with the remaining Chiavari brothers
calling for bloody vengeance. And all alone, without a single comrade to stand beside him, to watch over him … For a moment,
he felt a childish self-pity ballooning in his chest, but he squelched it ruthlessly, laughing at his own weakness, and focused
his thoughts on his future – and the loom of the Chiavaris. When would they come? At night? Maybe. During the day in the guise
of concerned friends? Perhaps. Or would they wait until his guard was down, perhaps for weeks or even months. Whichever, it
would be foolish to remain lying here in this bed for too long …
***
Alan was awoken by a clattering of wood on stone and a harsh cry of pain. It was dim in the infirmary, deep night-time, but
a lone candle on a table at the far end gave some relief from the darkness. He sat up and looked left. The cot that had contained
his surly companion was empty but he could see a humped shape moving feebly at the foot of the bed, trying to drag itself
forward. He slowly levered himself out of bed and stepped over to the fallen man. Two fierce eyes gleamed up at him from the
tangle of limbs and bedding. Alan reached down and hauled the man upright. Hanno let out a bitten-down yelp as his broken
limb banged against the bed, and followed it with a foul-sounding stream of unintelligible yet clearly furious words. It was
no easy task, for his wounds had seriously weakened him, but Alan had soon wrestled the shaven-headed man back on his cot.
They glared at each other, both panting with the exertion of the manoeuvre. And then Hanno said loudly, ‘
Wasser
!’
‘What?’
‘
Wasser
!
Wasser
!’ Hanno mimed drinking with a curled hand.
