Hastiludes

By S. Copperstone

Knights. Jousts. Battles. Romance. The Undead. It is near the end of the Battle of Bannockburn in Scotland where we find the young knight, Étienne le Naper, near enemy lines, wounded, and headed back from camp when he comes face to cloak with a man who reminds him of a similar encounter in his childhood. Born to a French noblewoman and a Scottish knight, Étienne finds himself the target of an ancient curse in the form of Rognvald of Aud, the mysterious warrior of Celtic and Viking blood who seems determined to cause Étienne trouble. Can Étienne overcome the family curse and continue to live a normal life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. Copperstone
• Release date: Oct 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463092514

S. Copperstone

S. Copperstone has been writing unusual things for many years. She lives with a cat named Hobbit, who insists on sitting on her lap during her writing time. Samples of her work can be found at Bygone Era Books, LTD "Bittersweet Tavern", on Amazon: "The High King's Embalmer", Jukepop Serials’ web serial entitled, “Two Bits,” (December 2013 to present), and “The Chest,” published in the print edition of the Static Movement anthology, (Liquid Imagination Publishing) 2009, among other places.

Book preview

Hastiludes

N

S. Copperstone

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to business establishments, events, locales or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Hastiludes by S. Copperstone

Cover by Back Porch Designs, LLC.

Published by Back Porch Designs, LLC

© 2018 Shari Wice All rights reserved.

First Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, electronic or other form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Rhonda, long live the kilt-man.

N

1st Chapter

. Monday, the 24th of June 1314 .

Guerre à outrance, the bloodiest one seen thus far. Even after years of practice and preparation for battle, who could prepare themselves for such carnage as I experienced this morn?

I wiped sweat from my face with a blood splattered hand, then reached for my canteen with the other. My horse, Eachan Dubh, walked along the deer trail into the forest and peaty lands of the Carse of Balquhiderock on the outskirts of the main battle of Blàr Allt nam Bànag. I used the time to take a well-deserved rest after the hard fight. The cavalry's mission was to diminish the English archers’ ranks, but we accomplished more than that.

Well-deserved, albeit warm, water from my costrel, soothed my parched throat. The saddle creaked as I shifted and yanked a squire-sized loaf from a sack tied to my saddle, and examined the magenta speckled bread before tearing off a piece, wondering where my sister had gotten the rose petals. I uncorked the canteen again and swallowed between bites, thankful for what I had, yet hoping the water might wash away the bile in the back of my throat.

My horse startled at the sudden appearance of the Welsh archer as he fell face-first on the flattened grass not far from the Bannock Burn Gorge. I retrieved the reins before the smoky roan bolted and glanced down at peat-infused water that had taken on the color of blood. Sprigs of tall grasses swayed in the hot breeze, a welcomed relief on my perspiring face. I looked skyward at the stirring trees, and chewed the sweet bread my sister made.

The sounds beckoned me to return to the battlefield. Adrenaline surged through my veins from the rousing fervor of war. Piercing cries of horses in pain; grunts, curses, and moans of wounded and dying men, filled the atmosphere.

A tinge of remorse and at the same time, dread welled in the pit of my stomach the instant I spied the banners of the Knights of Saint John. They were a great distance from myself. My half-brother, Guy de Carcassonne, was amongst them, I was certain. I prayed to God I would not have to battle him.

His leggy courser moved away and rejoined the English ranks. Relief passed over me when I was certain he had not seen me. The forest trees blocked any further views.

Flies irritated Eachan Dubh. He stamped his hooves against the earth. I patted the sticky, lathered neck, and slid my fingers through the black, white and gray streaked mane.

"Anon, Eachan Dubh. Anon," I said calmly, and placed the remaining bread inside the sack. I reattached the canteen to a ring on the bow of the deep-seated saddle, then lowered my bascinet’s visor.

A man-at-arms shouted unintelligently as he slid off his horse to land under Eachan Dubh’s dancing hooves. My horse stepped backward, missing the man by no more than an inch or two, and pawed at the ground.

The soldier looked up at me, pointing to his neck with a bloody hand. His face twisted with his pain. An English lance impaled his chest. The spear end protruded through the back of his leather surcôte.

Are you certain? I dismounted, but hesitated as I scanned the horizon and those around me, seeking anyone who might be able to help the wounded soldier to safety. It was hard to tell if the spear had pierced through vital organs, and I thought perhaps the man could be saved, if he allowed such a thing.

I might well find a surg— I said, after a long inhale.

"Chan eil."

I shall do as required, I mumbled under my breath. My first coup de grâce, and not something I ever wanted to do. My father had taught me the stroke of death as one of the first maneuvers with a knife. We practiced on the livestock set for slaughter that autumn. I had never attempted such on a human.

My heart beat faster and the acid built up in my throat, choking me. I coughed.

After inhaling a long breath, I removed the miséricorde from my belt and executed the coup de grâce with numbed thoughts. I plunged the long, thin blade between the chain mail under his arm and between his ribs, straight into his heart, pretending what I did was doing nothing more than butchering sheep.

It was not the same. Not the same at all.

The man's final scream would haunt my dreams the rest of my life.

Eachan Dubh grazed near me as I sat on the grass beside the dead soldier. I couldn't stop it, my stomach lurched from the act and I lost my former meal. I knelt a moment to recover, holding a hand to my mouth and another over my stomach.

Compose yourself, Étienne. You have fought many on this day. He is only one more.

But he wasn't. It was different.

After a several deep breaths, I wiped the blood off my dagger on the grass, and eyed my surroundings. In a clearing, I caught a glimpse of the caparsion of a Knights Templar in a sword-fight with an English knight.

A member of the English cavalry approached my direction as I remounted Eachan Dubh. His attention seemed focused on the dead Scottish soldier I had just mercy-killed.

I maneuvered my roan into the safety of the coppiced timberland, and slowly pulled the sword from the scabbard at my hip, waiting for the Englishman to cross my path.

I did not wait long.

The English knight spun his fine destrier around to challenge me.

How now? he asked, eying me from head-to-toe. To whom do you pay homage? Do you yield to the true king, Edward?

He is not my king, I said in French but used the Gaelic for 'king'.

"Un Français?" The knight examined my surcôte and Eachan Dubh’s matching caparison.

I am.

And side with the Scots? His gaze darted back to the dead soldier. Or, perhaps not? From where dost thou hail? He attempted to lower my status with the more familiar form of address. Aquitaine? Gascony?

Lower Burgundy.

Ah! Fight’st on the wrong side, Traitor.

I am no traitor. I fight for my king, Robert de Brus.

The English horseman growled something of which I did not understand, and propelled his horse forward. His sturdy destrier shied away from the low hanging larch branches I had hid between.

The knight spurred the horse again. As it lurched forward, out of rhythm, the knight raised his sword and swung.

My sword caught his at an angle, knocking him off balance. His sword tangled in the branches.

With such an opportunity, I took it. I slid my sword under the plate armor beneath the knight’s arm, then quickly withdrew it when the knight gasped in pain.

I dropped my sword on top of the knight’s knee plate, at the same instant I leaned my weight into my left stirrup, and heeled my horse’s side.

Eachan Dubh bumped the soldier’s steed with an aggressive toss of his head and laid-back ears and bared teeth.

Using my horse as leverage, I swung with all my might, cutting through the knight’s armor into his knee.

At my prodding, Eachan Dubh rose off his front hooves as his teeth clamped down onto the destrier’s neck.

The horse squealed while his master tried to grasp his knee, fight off my horse, and my sword, and keep his mount under control at the same time.

I kicked at the knight as a Scottish pikeman pulled the Englishman from his saddle.

Gramercy, I said to the pikeman, and urged Eachan Dubh forward to meet another challenger. We emerged near the ditch, entering the field at a gallop. I turned my horse in time, but narrowly avoided a collision. Eachan Dubh’s nose bumped into the runaway horse’s shoulder.

I stayed on the outskirts of the field, out of range of the flying arrows from English and Irish archers and Welsh longbow men bombarding our pikemen.

My brother-in-law, Sir William de Blakeburne the Younger, raised his helm. He had ridden along the outskirts of the archers’ division and cavalry until he noticed me.

Methinks a lass did fight, although I could not be certain, he bantered. Alas, no, ‘twas Étienne le Naper.

A lass? I am not. I lifted my visor.

We shall see. William chuckled. I yet see you as a wee bairn drinking from a goat teet.

Forgive me for disrupting your poor memory of me. I do not believe you knew my sister, nor me, at that time.

I did in fact, Étienne, know both of ye at that time. I knew ye all before Sir Guy arrived in Scotland with thy father, in fact. I regret this, what I must do, but all is fair in war.

He slashed at my arm, cutting through the tabard to the leather laces fastening the chain mail sleeve, and into the leather gambeson I wore beneath.

My anger boiled over as I glared at William, temporarily forgetting the laceration on my shoulder.

I’m Sir Étienne le Naper now. Knighted by my king, Robert de Brus, on this morn. I repelled another blow from William.

And he should be your king as well, I added through my teeth.

Étienne, dear lad, such a mistake made on your part. I have paid homage to King Edward. I care not to forfeit my lands to a losing side. If this is the truth on your being knighted, prove yourself, William shouted above the sudden ruckus of war.

I readied my sword and lowered the visor.

The Blakeburne battles on a losing side.

"Ni h-eadh Naper, I do not, William shouted over the tempo of clinking swords and axes. Pray thy stubbornness doth kill thee nought! The English king paid highly for my services."

He turned away, distracted by something I did not see. He faced me, again before I might take advantage of the distraction.

Another time, Étienne. He backed his mount away, then rode toward the north. Scottish archers shot arrows after him. I could not see if any hit their target.

I caught a glimpse of King Robert just as the enemy’s arrow aimed at him. I maneuvered Eachan Dubh between the English archer and the king.

The arrow hit to the right of my previous wound. I ignored it for the moment, occupying myself with an English foot soldier who prowled behind the ranks.

My young stallion’s ears flattened against his head. I commanded Eachan Dubh to dance sideways and rear on his hind legs. His front hooves struck the foot soldier in the head.

I’m proud of thee, Eachan Dubh. I patted the horse's charcoal neck.

After a few quick yanks, I nearly had the arrow free, until the shaft broke. The arrowhead remained lodged in my mail, thankful it hadn’t done too much damage to my arm. I could move it, so was not so concerned about it.

William entered the woods where our side had earlier hidden the caltrops. I lost sight of him after his horse stepped into a hole.

Serves him right.

I removed my bascinet and wiped sweat away from my eyes, taking advantage of the ebbing battle for a quick respite.

"Hallò Étienne! On being knighted, meal an naidheachd," Symon shouted in Gaelic.

I squeezed my leg against the stallion’s flank, swinging the horse around to see my friend.

Hail Symon. I thank thee.

I have high hopes for our victory. Symon put a hand to his cheeks, wiping away blood splatter and sweat. Some of his wild hair clung to his face.

Any blood yours?

Symon shook his head.

Blakeburne the Young fell, he said.

Is he well?

The brush was too thick to see. He disappeared into it.

He isn’t dead somewhere? I thought of my sister, Devorguilla, and how upset she would be if her husband was dead.

I did witness Blakeburne curse his luck as he hurled over the neck of his horse, Symon said. His horse stepped into a potte, and broke its front leg, with a wooden spike protruding. I tell thee, Étienne, he gathered shield and sword, and stepped backward onto a caltrop hidden in the grass. He let out a yell and cursed again as the iron spikes pierced his foot. He fell to his knees, leaning against the sword. His squire came to his rescue. I imagine the pain he felt. I did not witness the outcome of his poor horse.

‘Twould be good happenstance it doesn’t turn septic.

Indeed. Where did all this blood come from, Étienne? None is yours, I hope. Is the wound bad?

Most is not mine, I said. Where is your weapon?

"I lost my pike in the armor of a Sasannach knight. Symon grinned with pride. Tried to pull it out, ‘twas caught and I had not time to free it. I’ve only this long pavade." He held up the dagger.

I might well keep it, he said. Mayhap I shall name it, as knights name their swords. He paused to point to another weapon on the ground. "Behold, a bec-de-faucon."

A deadly weapon indeed.

Aye, it did not help its master, eh?

I shook my head.

And caught this flying through the air. Symon held up an ax and sword.

Luck follows you.

Aye!

Here, take my mace, I said. Take it. I tossed Symon the weapon my brother-in-law, Alasdair, had given me prior to the battle.

There is need for yet another weapon. I can carry not another. They gather strength, I said with a nod in the direction of our enemies. Be heedful, Symon.

God yield thee and be heedful. Let no more blood loss be thine. He studied the gruesome, bruising weapon in his hands.

Again, I thank you, Étienne, he said. Good fortune, this. Godspeed. We’ve much work to do, holding prisoners for ransom and such.

That we do.

A wave of shouts penetrated the eerily still atmosphere of the forest behind us.

Behold, he said and pointed to the source of the commotion.

Highlanders, hangers-on, grooms, wives, and others who had arrived too late for battle, assailed the English army between Gillies Hill and Coxet Hill. They shouted and brandished weapons of all types. Many had nothing more than rakes and hoes, but ran toward the English and their caravan, with abandon.

They believe we have another army. They retreat! Symon grinned. The River Forth is jammed.

We watched in awe as the English horses trampled those in their paths, pushing more men toward the ditch.

They drown in their haste to retreat and tangle themselves in the dead! Symon said. Behold Étienne, our pikemen spear those caught in the mud.

He pointed toward the clearing where his brother, Gillanders, stood.

I must help, he said. I shall return.

I shall see you soon. I dismounted, removed my bascinet, and tied it to my saddle. I lead the stallion through mounds of the fallen: horse and man. A light-headed feeling overtook me briefly, and I wondered if something wasn’t wrong with me.

My foot hit something large, and solid. I glanced down at the body—a darkly clad soldier on his stomach.

My horse reared and broke away.

I cursed and took a step to go after him.

My foot caught on something.

I landed sprawled on top of the soldier. Before I could recover, something bit down into my neck.

I fell unconscious.

Again.

2nd Chapter

Corpses lay dotted with mud cakes in the shape of iron horse shoes. The aroma of sweat and blood drifted along the breeze. I drew myself up into a kneeling position. Sweat beaded on my face, stinging my eyes. The back of my hand wiped at the perspiration on my forehead. Despite the activity all around me, I was alone. I felt alone with that peaceful mix of uneasiness, the way one feels when surrounded by the dead.

I was surrounded by the dead.

I was not. I closed my eyes, then faced the sky, thanking God for my life.

Eachan Dubh was missing. I scanned the horizon, and saw nothing but carnage, and that dark, fully cloaked figure hunched over a dead man. Others did the same—stealing from the dead. I set out in search of my horse, somehow managing to avoid the caltrops and pottes I had help dig prior to the war. Felled trees—some natural, some man-made littered my path. My feet slipped on the mossy, and lichen-covered soil.

Exhaustion came over me and I didn’t understand why. The wounds I had suffered should not have caused such discomfort, I did not believe. In fact, I had forgotten about them until someone in passing pointed out the broken shaft lodged in my shoulder. Blood crusted on my neck and chest, but I ignored everything, except the wound on my shoulder. Each rough step caused a shooting pain through my arm and chest. The mail had stopped the arrow’s deep penetration. Mud and bodily fluids soaked my surcôte.

Mangled limbs and torsos intertwined with muck near the river. The moans from the wounded and soon-to-die sickened me. I stumbled along, stepping over bodies where I could; on top of them when they became too numerous. They stood between me and my need to cross the river. I had been separated from my division and ended up behind the English line, with no idea how. I couldn’t recall any the events leading up to that moment. I knew only, that I was not where I needed to be.

Bodies of horses and men filled the steam and mud. I used them as a bridge to cross. A shadowed movement behind the bushes caught my eye.

Eachan Dubh grazed and kicked at flies biting his belly.

I walked slowly toward him, not wanting to startle the horse.

Ah Eachan Dubh, I said, rubbing the silvering black coat and mane. We’re both alive. Is this not a miracle?

Eachan Dubh snorted and kicked at another fly on his belly. I took hold of the bridle and lead the horse along the riverbank toward the eastern side of camp. Along the way, I rolled over a man with familiar heraldry.

Not my brother.

I didn’t know that man, although he was another Knight of St. John.

That bitter taste rose in my throat, again. I picked up the Hospitaller’s bloodied sword and placed it on the grass. I attempted to remove the mail hauberk, then gave up and moved away from the carnage.

I wrestled with the dead Englishman to relieve him of his mail, then continued on my way. Without stopped, I walked passed the cloaked man who was still hunched over a body. He wasn’t stealing, as I had originally thought.

He snapped away from the body, and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. He peered at me, at least I thought he did, before snarling like a rabid wolf and disappearing behind a tangle of vines at the edge of the forest. I could not see his face to be certain of what I saw. With all the death and dying around, I could not have seen what I witnessed. It had to have been my imagination.

A mirage, defiantly.

He was not drinking the blood of the dead.

I shook it off and sought out my friends and family amidst the thousands of others. My hazy vision prevented me from my quest.

Halt there, a strong male voice called out. To whom lies your loyalty?

I eyed the man, taking into account the embroidered design on his surcôte, the heraldry of Carrick—a king’s man. My eyes roved from the leather reins in the man’s grasp, to the gray muzzle of the horse towering above.

Scotland Sir, I said. I am Étienne le Naper of Gartluggie in Stirlingshire. Son of Alan le Naper, knight banneret and Lord of Gartslagan. I paid homage to the King of Scots, Robert de Brus.

Knighted only this morn by His Majesty?

In truth.

You are the Naper I seek. 'Tis a gift from our king. He patted the gray neck belonging to the destrier. His Majesty is most grateful for your valor in battle, and taking an arrow for him. He stated I am to seek you and bring this gift, courtesy of a most noble English knight who gave his life for his cause.

I took the reins from the man and tied Eachan Dubh’s reins to the saddle of the destrier.

Feared I would find you not before darkness. We were making preparations to take the horse to Gartluggie. You have saved us the journey, the man of Carrick said as he turned away to leave.

I am grateful for the gift, I said with a grin. "Please, I pray grand merci will fall upon the king’s ears."

I shall be certain that is true.

I studied the stately destrier, once the pride of a wealthy English knight, then returned to my struggles with the removal of the mail from the Knight Hospitaller.

Étienne, Ywar said as he approached. Fair thee well?

Well enough. Look Ywar, the king granted me this destrier.

Surcely you jest!

I shook my head with a proud smile.

A beauty, Étienne. Watch those hooves! They look to be spiked.

I figured as much.

Look at these golden spurs, Ywar said as he held up two pairs of spurs. Come. We can have whatever we want from the dead Englishmen. The king proclaimed such. Some hold the wounded for ransom, I hear tell. The wealthier dead are being taken by their men and families, others are being buried or burned. They are making piles of weapons and arms, and dividing them according to rank. Their camp-followers have lost everything. Everyone will receive abundant wealth courtesy of the English.

Ywar sorted through the tabard of a body laying in the mud. He held up a small dirk retrieved from the man's belt.

We’re claiming many riches and food from the English wagons, he said.

Help me with this birnie.

This did not help him, did it? Ywar removed the mail hauberk.

I agreed, studying the knight’s slashed neck. Half his face was sliced off. An empty eye socket stared at me with grisly fright.

Ywar shook his head.

A shame for him. He stepped away and loaded more prizes on his horse. Perchance there’s much lucre for us all.

We removed horse armor and scavenged through soldiers’ bodies, seizing weapons. Ywar packed, loaded the horses, and walked toward camp.

The thought of the cloaked figure humped over the man on the grass surfaced in my mind. For the moment, I could think of nothing else. I stopped to rest and held my wounded shoulder tightly, trying to stop pain that surged through my arm.

I pulled my