brute.
One hand still held his curved knife, but with the other he snatched the pear from the girl’s hand. She gave a squeak of protest, but he ignored her.
‘I know your kind,’ he told me. ‘You take a fancy to my Joscelina and think you can tempt her with presents as soon as my back is turned. I didn’t take her in and feed and clothe her all these years just to see some filthy lice-ridden beggar take her from me.’
‘Uncle-’
Whatever Joscelina had been about to say, she was silenced by a slap across the face. The fishmonger let go of her wrist and she gave a cry as she fell awkwardly on to the muddy street.
He turned the pear over in his hand, examining it with disdain. ‘Is this how much you think she’s worth?’ he asked. ‘This worm-ridden thing?’ He tossed it into the gutter where the fish-heads lay.
By then a handful of the other stallholders had come to see what the commotion was about. They were men of all shapes: some tall and wiry; others built like the girl’s uncle, with strong shoulders and swollen guts and weather-worn faces that bore stern expressions.
‘Are you making trouble for Gerbod, lad?’ said one of them as they began to form a ring around me.
What I should have done then was see sense and make my apologies, or else try to run before anything further happened; there was no doubt that I was quicker on my feet than these men. That was what instinct told me was the right course, but something else held me there. My blood had been stirred; it ran hot in my veins as anger swelled inside me. It wasn’t that the fishmonger’s words offended me, for in my life I had been called many worse things than a beggar, and bore such insults lightly. Rather what angered me was the way he’d struck his niece when she had done nothing to deserve it, and even though how he chose to treat her was none of my business, in that moment my head was filled with visions of myself as her stalwart defender, in the manner of the knights of legend, the ones praised by the poets in their songs.
‘What are you waiting for?’ asked the fishmonger, the man they’d called Gerbod. He waved his bloodied fish knife in my direction. ‘Get gone from here before I bury this blade in your gut.’
But I wasn’t listening. Instead I slid my own knife from its sheath and brandished it before me, clutching the hilt so tightly that it hurt my palm as I turned to face each one of them in turn. The weapon had been given to me by Lord Robert when first I’d entered his service, and I treasured it above all my other possessions, often spending long hours by light of sun and moon honing its edge with whetstone and polishing the flat of the steel until my own reflection gazed back at me. Of course I’d been in fights before, both in the training yard and outside of it, but rarely with anyone but the other servant-boys in Lord Robert’s household, and certainly not with full-grown men such as these, who looked as though they had seen more than their share of tussles over the years. Including Gerbod, there were six of them. Even many years later, when my sword-skills were at their sharpest, when for a while my name was among those sung by the poets and my deeds were known far and wide, I would have thought twice about trying to fight so many by myself. To think I could do so then, when I had not even sixteen summers behind me, was the height of folly, but arrogance had blinded me. That, and a desire to prove myself, to show the girl, her uncle and his friends that I was no craven.
A couple of them drew their own weapons; the others simply laughed.
‘Don’t be stupid, boy,’ the fishmonger snarled from the other side of his stall. ‘You can’t fight us.’
Behind him the girl was getting to her feet, rubbing her wrist and elbow, and there were tears in her eyes.
‘Put your blade away and you won’t get hurt,’ said Gerbod. He came around the table where the fish lay in their neat rows, and strode towards me, gutting-knife still in hand.
I glanced about, facing each one of those who were surrounding me and starting to wonder whether this had been such a good idea. With every beat of my heart my confidence and resolve began to ebb away, until, almost without willing it, I found my weapon-hand returning to the sheath at my belt and sliding the steel back into the leather.
Gerbod grinned, displaying a row of broken, yellow teeth. He took another step closer to me so that his ale- reeking breath filled my nose, then, after eyeing me carefully, he laid both his hands upon my shoulders and shoved me. I wasn’t expecting it and stumbled backwards, into the path of one of the fishmonger’s friends, who tried to send me back the way I had come. My feet couldn’t keep up with the rest of me, however, and suddenly I found myself sprawling forward, limbs flailing, landing on my side in a puddle to the laughs and jeers of the men. Before I could even think of getting up, something connected sharply with my ribs, and I yelped.
‘That’s for threatening me,’ I heard the fishmonger say. He kicked me again, closer to my groin this time. ‘No one crosses me and walks away freely.’
Wincing in double agony, I clutched at my chest as he bent down beside me and in one swift move cut through the leather thong that tied the coin-purse with which Lord Robert had entrusted me to my belt.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. He hefted the pouch in his hand, feeling its weight and listening to the clink of silver inside, before opening the drawstring. His eyes gleamed as he upended the contents into his palm, letting a stream of coins pour forth.
‘He must have stolen it,’ said one of his companions, a thickset man with lank hair and a large wart on the tip of his nose. ‘I reckon he was looking to rob you too, until you caught him.’
‘Rob me of my Joscelina, indeed,’ Gerbod murmured. He tipped the silver back into the purse and glanced down at me. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Do you know how they punish your sort here?’
‘I’m no thief,’ I said. ‘That silver belongs to my lord, Robert de Commines.’
But the fishmonger did not want to listen to my protests. He landed another kick to my gut before, at his signal, the lank-haired man stepped forward and dragged me to my feet. I might, I suppose, have shouted out for help, but it seemed the cowardly thing to do, and in any case how many of the market-goers would want to involve themselves in something that was none of their business? Far better, in their eyes, to let things take their course than to risk injury and perhaps worse. And so it was then. Dazed and blinking to keep the tears of pain from my eyes, I glanced around, trying desperately to meet the eye of anyone, man or woman, who might come to my aid, but they all kept their heads bowed low as they hustled past. The pipe and tabor still played; elsewhere merchants continued to call out the prices of their wares. To them it was just another day, another street brawl.
Eventually my gaze settled once more on Gerbod, who stood in front of me. In his left hand he clutched the purse that contained his spoils, while in the other he held the curved knife, and it was with that one that he grabbed my collar.
‘This silver is mine now,’ he said, and spat in my face.
My arms were pinned behind me, and I could not lift them to wipe away his spit, let alone reach for my knife-hilt, for all the good that would do me. The breath caught in my chest as I glimpsed the glinting edge of his blade, mere inches from my neck. One slip of his hand was all it would take.
‘It belongs to Lord Robert,’ I said in a small voice. It was useless to argue, even if it was the truth. But the truth was all I had to offer, and no other ideas came to mind.
‘Suppose that it did,’ the fishmonger said as he clutched tighter at my collar, ‘tell me this: where is he now to claim it?’
‘Closer than you think,’ came a voice from somewhere behind me, and a wave of relief broke over me, for it was a voice I knew well. A look of surprise came over Gerbod’s face, which quickly changed to a frown as he let go of me and faced the newcomer. A shiver came over me and I breathed deeply as the knife left my throat. I tried to turn but the lank-haired one still held me. Even when I twisted my neck to look over my shoulder, all I could see was a shadowy, indistinct figure, for the sun was in my eyes.
‘This isn’t your concern, friend,’ said the fishmonger.
The figure shouldered his way through the ring of men around me, his mail chinking. With every step the shadow resolved, until I could make out familiar features: his well-trimmed beard, of which he had always been proud; and his thick eyebrows, which lent him a stern appearance. He was then a little less than thirty in years, and while he was neither especially tall nor imposing in stature, he nonetheless had a manner and a way of speaking that always seemed to command respect, not just from those in his employ but from others too. Silver rings adorned both his hands; he was clad in a newly polished hauberk that glistened in the light, while hanging from his belt was a scabbard decorated with enamelled copper and gemstones of many hues.
‘I rather think it is my concern,’ he answered. ‘My name is Robert de Commines. The boy is one of my retainers.’
