The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 1 Memories of Summer

Perhaps I should start with my childhood at Castle Rocadamour. My father was lord of a mountain town in the most beautiful part of central France. Whenever I think of my youth, I think of the blue skies of long summer days and daily adventures with my friends. My friends and I had our own ponies from when we were eleven and we rode to fight in imaginary wars whenever we could. Each morning, I would wake with excitement, ready for the new day. Ignoring the complaints of my younger brother William, I'd jump from our bed and yell for the servants to come assist with my dress. Within the hour, I would have washed, eaten and had the stablehands prepare my pony. Then I was away, trotting down the mountainside, breathing in deep of the cool morning air, searching the horizon above the ochre hills for distant hawks and feeling like the happiest boy in creation.

It will be easy for the reader to understand how such a boy would become an impatient young man of sixteen. To appreciate how eager he would be to face real enemies, lance in hand. And to daydream that by defeating them, he would earn the accolades of the poets. Above all, I was impatient to impress Father and demonstrate to him I was a warrior who did not fear battle. Lord Rocadamour was a stern man, although his knights all loved him deeply. He had fought in four wars. He had nothing to prove to anyone about his bravery or skill at arms.

Sometimes, Father would take a direct hand in my learning. On such days, William and I sprang to our tasks like young lions. When I got the chance to display to Father my strength with a wooden practice sword, I would lash at him with blows so mighty as to break mountains apart. Or so I wished. Father would laugh (a flash of white teeth in a black beard) and deflect my sweeping cuts effortlessly. When he had enough of this play, he would suddenly move upon us both. Feint, jab, jab. And two winded boys would be sat on the ground, gasping and red faced, while Lord Rocadamour's knights laughed at us.

Naturally, when later that year word of the Holy Expedition came to us (we did not call it a croisade until it was under way), I was eager to go. Father, anxious for the future of his dynasty, or perhaps out of love of me, put up strong resistance to my joining the army. As for mother and my sister Alice, you can picture the tears and the pleading as they clung to me; both with arms wrapped around me as if to protect me from arrows. They insisted I should not go. Not even for love of God (who I invoked, of course, though the truth was, I had only glory in mind).

Probably, I would not have been permitted to participate in the march to Jerusalem, but that Duke Shalk himself arrived at our castle, hoping to persuade the lords of southern France to join him. Full of passion and determination, the voice of the tall nobleman echoed powerfully in our hall, prophesying immortal fame for those who rescued Christ's church at Jerusalem from the heretics. Only after this direct appeal, although visibly reluctant, did Father grant me permission to join the departing army. O, what agony I could see in the sulks of William, since he was refused the same opportunity in no uncertain terms. At night, my younger brother would whisper to me of his plans to run away to join me. Knowing that they would come to nothing and knowing too how hurt he was, I indulged his wishful visions. As I lay in our bed, listening to him explain how his lot was nothing but injustice, my own heart was secretly aglow. At last, a worthy enterprise and one that would present many a chance to demonstrate that I was no coward.

It was in late summer, on the Feast Day of St Bartholomew, that I rode through the gates of Castle Rocadamour to take the northern road towards Rouen, where I was to rendezvous with Duke Shalk's army. Near the tip of my lance, the sunflower yellow and pale blue colours of our dynasty were fluttering as rapidly as my heart. Behind me were my two squires and somewhere above me, I knew, Alice was throwing rose petals (the wind took them away from our path). No doubt, Mother was fighting back the tears. And, no doubt too, for very different reasons, William was also teary-eyed as he watched me ride off.

In every way but one, this was a proud moment for me. The maggot in the apple of my life was the presence of one of Father's knights, a sergeant called Arnulf who had been assigned to guide me and bring me back safely. A chaperone. While Arnulf felt insulted that Father was willing to lose a man who in battle and counsel was one of his most reliable knights, I was equally annoyed that I was supposed to defer to Arnulf, 'in all matters of importance' as my Father put it. Assigning this sergeant to guide me was an insult to my status as future lord of Rocadamour. It was as though I had never been knighted and was still a squire.

Even so, I was on my way. No longer the boy on the pony with the pretend weapons, daydreaming of adventures; now I was riding towards very real battles, with armour that glittered in the sunshine, an iron sword and with murderous intent.