Echoes of a Legend

Chapter ONE: The De Godefroy's, Stowburgh and the Manor

”Now sod off and go and pick the splinters out my boys arse!” Roldan De Godefroy

The mist from the river Gipley, which had crept tentatively across the woodland floor since the previous evening, had finally burnt away as the morning sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky. Mently Woods, all part of the De Godefroy Manor, is at its silent best with no more than the occasional scuttle of small wildlife to disturb the peace.

Burleigh De Godefroy is being exceptionally quiet for a big man. Lying on his back, he waited with perfect patience. ‘Surely he will be close soon?’ he thinks. A tingle loomed under his nose, but with every inch of his body covered under the damp leaves that layered the floor and his arms firmly by his side, he dare not move to relieve the irritation. He waited.

Ackerley is eighteen now, just eighteen months younger than his brother Burleigh and both are considered as fully grown men and rounded adults ready to take that next step in life. What that next step entailed is a mystery to both of them. They are happy to learn hand to hand combat, the art of battle or at least show their immense sword skills to the local female nobility; mostly of which were displays reserved as the centrepiece to a social gathering arranged by their father to show off his learned legatees. Each man would give their all to gasps and squeals from the expectant crowd, before finishing in a flourish of loud applause and a standing ovation. Neither would be hurt although someone’s pride always took a modest knock.

The wind blows thickly through Ackerley’s long black hair. Strands dance from his lip to his forehead, teasing the young nobleman as he squats perfectly still behind the large horse chestnut staring at the empty woodland in front of him. This is the third time in a week that the brothers have extended their lessons with Jerold to include a physical game of hide and seek; physical in the sense that when found you must make your opponent yield.

The trees have almost given up their foliage to the autumn winds and the winter chills that lay ahead, and the ground is eerily still with their blanket of browns, greens, yellows and burnt red leaves from the various varieties, all just waiting for their next companion to float gently into place. Ackerley dare not turn his head as any movement may twist his high-legged boots into the loose brush below which will give away his position. ‘Without doubt he will slip up soon,’ he thinks.

Burleigh is the stronger and larger of the brothers, but has a far clumsier demeanour. Ackerley hoped that this concluding trait will soon manifest itself fully and assist in revealing his siblings whereabouts; considering a game such as this requires a placid and subtle approach.

The trees bark is beginning to imbed itself into Ackerley’s cheek. He glimpses a pair of woodlouse as they, paying no attention to the large object that has no right being pressed against their home, scuttle down past his eye line. The wind is now biting. ‘How long have I been here?’ Ackerley wonders. ‘Should I move on?’ He lets his wooden sword slide through his right hand so he is left gripping the narrow tip. With the weapon now a useful crutch and with all his weight leaning down on it, he slowly straightens his legs without making a sound. Jerold would have had a fit if he saw him and he could hear the Yeoman clear as day in his head. ‘Everything you are taught, every movement, posture, turn, thrust, must all be as if for real, for a purpose and as if your life depended on it.’ In other words if he had done this with a genuine blade, his fingers would now be scattered amongst the leaves below! He stood perfectly still and ponders, ‘where is Burleigh?’ Then it dawns on him. Could he actually be on the other side of this tree? ‘No-, mind you-, he was very close the last time I saw him-, running and ducking-, scooting under a low branch just over there.’ He stares intently into the distance and visualises the last time he saw his brother. A look of bewilderment comes across his face. ‘Where is he?’ The heavy beige woollen tunic, which seemed a good idea at the start of this jaunt, is starting to itch around his neck but he dare not scratch it, however, if it continued to irritate this would make up his mind to leave his current position. There was nothing worse than a scratch you couldn’t itch and he knew that from his experience of the heavy chainmail which restricted his ability to eradicate a particularly nasty bite on his chest last summer. The armour may be just rings of metal linked together to form a shirt of clothing, but the rings were too small for a finger to poke through and the overall weight was too heavy to lift a hand underneath. ‘Where is he?’ Ackerley is sure he would come back this way. He made his mind up about 20 minutes into this foray when instead of hunting Burleigh down, he double backed and waited for the big man to stumble upon him; entering his trap he had so carefully thought out after supper the night before. His stomach growls at the thought of that mutton and bread, it is a way off from lunchtime but he can almost smell the soup Cook would have on the boil. ‘That’s it, it’s time to strike. First things first, check the other side of this tree.’  With his sword now the right way up he counts to three, in French, in his head and lunges in a hugging motion around the great trunk which has been his cover for the past nine minutes; nothing. He decides to make his move, and with each step as gentle as the last, with just the merest of crunches and ruffles underfoot, he makes his way gingerly deeper into the trees.