Lowland Knight

Lowland Knight

Smashwords edition

© 2015

Philip van Wulven

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

The End

Chapter 1

The smell of incense was strong, and today there were two boys swinging censers. Edward, the son of Magda’s English maid, and Ged, the smith’s oldest boy. Both wore white tunics, though only Edward’s was actually still white. Ged’s looked as if he’d spent time stoking his father’s forge fire just before the service, which was exactly what he’d done, Gilbert knew. The two boys were a contrast in every way except their age and size. Edward had achieved a sort of slow rhythmic regular swing, in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion, while Ged was now swinging his brass burner higher with every oscillation. Gilbert glanced at Magda, and saw her hold her hand over her mouth, to hide a grin at the sight. Someone at the back of the packed chapel coughed, and Ged started. He tried to reduce the arc of his swing by placing a hand on the chain. The effect was not quite what he’d intended. The shortened chain caused the shallow dish to swing to a steeper angle, and several smoking chunks of frankincense spilled out onto the scrubbed flagstone floor. The cougher redoubled his warning, and the boy paled. He’d get more than a cough from his father, later.

Father Tobias turned to face the congregation, and smiled benignly at them. He shook his head slightly at Ged, just in time to stop the boy from attempting to scoop up the incense from the floor.

We are gathered here today to wish our fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons, our friends and neighbours, Godspeed on the great journey they will begin today. This Crusade will wrest the Holy Land from the grip of the heathen Saracens, and return Jerusalem to the care of God’s Church.

He bent to read from an official document, the same he had laboured over daily this past week, rendering the words into Dutch, he’d told Gilbert, so that all could understand what His Holiness said. The same message, in Latin, had been sent from Rome to every parish from which crusaders were about to depart on this great campaign.

Gilbert stood in a silent dream, not paying attention to the good Father’s words, but rather to the clear tones of a blackbird somewhere nearby, probably in one of the flowering apple trees on the other side of the yard. He glanced at Magda again, and saw her eyes were almost closed, and a little moisture shone on her lower eyelashes. She had her left hand on young Willem’s head, and was absently twisting a lock of sandy hair around her fingers. He reached out and grasped her other hand, and held it down between their bodies, hidden by the folds of her best kirtle.

The blackbird fell silent, while the good Father droned on. Gilbert’s stomach rumbled, and Magda squeezed his hand, then tapped one finger sharply against it, in the same rhythm she used to rap on the table when reminding the children of their manners.

Eventually, a rustle ran through the congregation, as people noted a change in the voice. The speech came to a rousing conclusion. This war is a war to end war in the Holy Land. God’s plan is certain, and victory is assured. You men will be home again before Christ’s Mass is celebrated.

Father Tobias stopped and stared out over the heads of the assembled people, and went on, in a quieter, almost conversational voice, If things go as they should.

As they walked back to the big house, Grandfather Willem said, That sermon was very like to the one we heard before we set out, so many years ago, when we embarked on the last Crusade. Of course, you know how that ended, with Christians fighting Christians, and the sack of Constantinople. He cleared his throat noisily, and said, Father Tobias is a good and holy man, subject to unfortunate fits of honesty. If the lords can refrain from plundering Christians, and sort out who the leader should be without too much fuss, you’ll have some chance of at least reaching the Holy Land.

Their immediate destination was Damietta on the Nile, in Egypt, by Count William’s decision. They’d have to work very fast indeed to take that fortified port, march on to Cairo, take that city as well, and take the Holy Land and Jerusalem, all before December. Realistically, not likely to happen. Gilbert, and every other man capable of thought, knew as much.

Chapter 2

The only good thing about lying on your back, Gilbert repeated to himself, was the high wooden sides of the ship blocked the North Sea wind and at least some of the spray from blasting through his wool jabon. The leather jerkin kept his chest warm, but his arms and hands had less protection. Wet wool was better than bare skin, but not by much. The cold wind was endurable when the alternative was the fug below in the hold with the horses, or the worse conditions in the crowded cabin, where several men had vomited, and others, with what must be truly cast iron stomachs, were enjoying a meal of pickled herring and strong ale.

The cog ploughed through the whitecapped waves with an awful nausea inducing movement. The bows dipped up and down in what the seamen called a pitch, and at the same time the whole ship rolled from one side to the other in a swaying motion. The two movements combined to send the stubby mast swaying across the grey scudding clouds overhead in a looping spiral.

He had his left leg braced against the planks beside him, and a hay bale on the other side kept him from rolling across the deck with each wave. There was nothing left in his poor abused stomach, but it still insisted on clenching tight in spasmodic attempts to get rid of anything he might have swallowed since the last spasm ten minutes before. His throat was raw from stomach juice, his mouth was dry and foul.

The noises of wind and water combined to drown out all but the loudest and shrillest noises from the poor horses, all hanging suspended in canvas slings below the deck he lay on. Those slings saved them from falling over and breaking bones, and perhaps lessened somewhat the impact of the wave induced motions of the vessel. The result was still quite uncomfortable for the poor animals, and they had no idea of what caused this, or if it would ever abate. Their instincts told them to run, and they couldn’t even place their hooves on the planks just below them.

It had to be noon, he thought, but noon was no brighter than the dawn had been. That was dawn of their first full day at sea, like to be as rough as the previous day had been. Only the first three hours had been bearable, before they came out from the shelter of land to be tossed around on the wild North Sea.

Look out, fellow. Got to get at that rope you’re lying on. Clad in oiled canvas breeches and bare chested, the Frisian exuded an almost unnatural energy and an aura of rude health that gave the Dutchman another quick lurch in his stomach, beyond the nausea induced by his struggle to sit up and move away from the rope. Yes, now he took notice, there was a thick rope under his shoulder. He had one arm draped over it so that only one shoulder was down on the planks. Maybe, if he just moved to lie properly flat on his back, and closed his eyes, the world would stop lurching around.

The seaman untied the rope, using a heavy spike in the wet knot to pry it loose, then hung on, leant back to put his body weight into the effort, and pulled. After hauling for a few seconds he retied the rope on the same cleat, and stomped away.

Gilbert closed his eyes. Those Frisians were used to this, out on the North Sea throughout the summers, fishing or carrying cargo in their sturdy cogs, like this one. From the attitudes of all the crew, these conditions were quite normal, even good sailing weather. God preserve me from ever doing this again, Gilbert swore silently. I’m not a bloody seagull. I will stick to eel fishing in a punt, or maybe travel by a river barge at most, from now.

Next thing he knew, it was almost dark. The waves had changed their motion, so that now the ship moved with a steadier, longer, up and down movement, and barely rolled from side to side. The wind was as strong, he could hear it whistle through the rigging, and the single sail still bellied out and pushed them along, but now they ran with the direction of the waves.

Gilbert found the idea of a drink strangely attractive. So much so he sat up and looked around.

The sailors were clustered in two groups, several around the steersman at the back, and the others lounging close to the bow, not far off, playing at dice, it seemed. Several of Gilbert’s fellows were there too. He recognised big Damian and Frans the horse marshal, and several others wearing the leather jerkins he’d got for all who’d taken oath to go with to drive the heathen Saracens from Holy Jerusalem. There was a big wineskin going the rounds, almost empty, from the limp state it showed.

Gilbert heaved himself up, with the help of that fat rope, which hummed with tension under his grip as it took the strain from one of the spars. He made it onto his feet, swayed a bit, then took one stumbling step after another towards that enticing wineskin. He could almost feel the harsh wet liquid sliding down his gullet. Only another few steps, if the bastards didn’t finish it before he got there.

Hey! Save me some of that, fellows, he said. Or at least, he meant to say. What came out was more of a feeble croak.

That was enough to get Frans to notice, at least. Here then, he said, and tossed the skin towards Gilbert. It landed short, with a slosh. He managed to pick it up by holding with one hand to the side of the boat, the strake, with one hand, and bending down carefully like a broken old man.

Aah! Nectar. He sloshed the mix of wine and water around his mouth, and swallowed. Never mind the lumps of stomach softened food that’d stuck to his teeth. He wasn’t going to waste precious liquid by spitting out the foul bits.

It gurgled down his gullet with somewhat of a burn. Must be vinegar in the mix. His stomach, for a wonder, stayed quiet and accepted the bounty with barely a rumble. He burped and wiped his mouth. Now he could face the world.

He stood up straight, and his legs felt steadier. Enough of shivering in the bottom of the boat and feeling sorry for himself. He had to lead these men to war, which meant they had to respect him.

Where are we now? I know we must have changed direction or moved past some point of land, because the motion of the ship has changed.

Yes, I think we’re past the coast of Zealand now, answered Alan. Now we should run more with the waves and wind, and have an easier time, until the Bay of Biscay, which is supposed to be rough, but might be better than what we’ve been through, if this wind direction holds.

One of the others spoke up, Not long after to Gibraltar, and then the Mediterranean. Bloody millpond once we reach there.

Gilbert nodded in acknowledgement. He didn’t see who’d said that, likely old Damian, from the voice. That seasoned veteran had sailed this route at least twice before, and spent several years as crewman aboard his Frisian cousin’s cog, mostly on the northern route to Denmark and the Baltic, trading salt fish and wool for timber and furs.

The sun broke through the overcast, and a rainbow arc rose from the patch of blue sea ahead, up to the low clouds. The western sky showed breaks in the overcast also, and flushed a rich pink, then darkened to rich reds and oranges. A good omen, indeed. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,