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Savaric and the Saxon

Copyright (c) 2009 Mike Bond

By the Good Lord Jesus, but it’s good to be home, thought Savaric, as he leaned on his pommel and looked around him at the winter landscape.

The trees of the forest, uncluttered now with leaves, reached towards the clear sky. It would be another cold night. Already he could feel the frost in the air.

He heard the great bell of the abbey toll for the Office of Nones. His palfrey threw her head up and down and danced sideways a little. At the same time, he felt the familiar tickle in his back.

He’d kept his shield with him. Normally, he’d have given it to Luke to take with him to the castle with the rest of his possessions, for he wouldn’t require it here. Suddenly, though, he was all too pleased to have the long, kite shaped defense with him.

He spun in the saddle, just as an arrow flew with deadly purpose right for what had been his exposed back. It hit the shield with such force as to almost unhorse him, and pierced a handsbreadth through, just missing his arm that held on to the shield’s brases.

It was a bodkin arrow against which his mail would have been no defense. As he turned, his dagger appeared in his right hand. His palfrey whinnied and capered around to face their attacker.

The archer was nocking another arrow when Savaric threw his knife with terrible purpose. It flew, glinting in the winter light, to find its mark deep in the lower chest of the would-be assassin.

Savaric’s opponent proved to be a huge Saxon, with a cascade of white hair to his shoulders and a great drooping mustache. He was down on one knee now, clutching his belly.

Savaric dismounted and strode over to him. He placed his sword beneath the Saxon’s chin and lifted his face to his own.

“A bow is a sorry weapon for a Saxon. Why did you try to kill me?” The man’s eyes widened as he heard his native tongue being spoken with such fluency by a Norman.

“Get this accursed knife out of me,” he rumbled.

“Rather than that, I’ll have your head, you miserable dog. Saxons face their foes and fight like men.”

“Normans are curs,” growled the huge man. “How matters it how they’re killed?” The Saxon gripped the knife hilt and with a great heave, pulled it from him. Blood spurted from the wound.

Savaric grabbed some linen from his saddle bag, went to the other, and placing a boot on his forehead, pushed him onto his back.

“Here, Saxon, in the name of mercy, I’ll see to you. But this only because I’m sick of killing.”

He parted the man’s fleece jerkin, bared his chest and stuffed the linen in the wound. Savaric poured a little of the contents of a small vial on top of the linen and around the wound.

The Saxon cried out. “In Woden’s name, do you poison me?”

“‘Tis a tincture from the Holy Land. ‘Twill stop the rot from setting in.” The Saxon lay back on the cold earth.

“How come you know my tongue, Norman?”

“My mother is Saxon. But tell me. Why do you hunt Normans?”

“Are you not from these parts?” The Saxon heaved himself onto one elbow.

“I’m but lately returned from the Holy Land. From Pilgrimage. I know nothing yet of the doings hereabouts.”

“Then I suppose I owe you my pardon,” the big man rumbled grudgingly, “for you are not to know of the dead Saxon girls, their bodies foully used, that come from the abbey yonder?”

“I know nothing of this,” Savaric replied. “I’ve yet to tell anyone of my return. But say what you’re called. My mother may know you.”

“My name is Aldwulf, once thegn of all Beckley and royal huscarl to Harold, my king.”

“And I am Savaric of the Witney hundred. My father is Engaram and my mother, Eanfled.”

Aldwulf looked up sharply as Savaric related the names. He said nothing, but looked discomfited.

“Do you know my mother?” Savaric prompted.

“I do, but – “

“But what, in God’s name? Speak, man.”

“‘Tis ill news, Savaric. The castle of Witney was razed by a band of men, led by a German. Both your parents are dead, I fear.”

Savaric shook his head like a dog, and staggered back, almost falling. “By a German, you say?” he grated.

“Aye. I myself, with others of our house, joined in the fight for your father, for both your parents were highly thought of.” Aldwulf looked up to the sky. “Night will be upon us soon. Meet me at this same place tomorrow, Savaric. There is much to discuss.”

Savaric went to him and helped him to his feet. “At that time, I’ll see to your wound again.”

“Whatever you did, you did it well. I feel no pain.”

“Then be here at Terce. You’ve given me grievous news.”

Aldwulf gathered his bow and both men went their way.

About the Author

Very recently, I’ve put up a page of wonderful reproduction medieval and Celtic jewelry, so if you’re wondering what to buy your wife or girlfriend, you’d be wise to visit this page.
http://www.theknightssite.com

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