The King's Zombies

By Tom Lawrence

What happens when a group of battle-hardened medieval warriors meets an army of Zombies? Attempting to concoct a cure for the plague, medieval alchemists have created a horde of deadly ghouls. Standing in their way is a band of English soldiers, stranded in France, bent on destroying them.

Young and fearless knight Sir William Faulkner and his friend Justin des Ferrers have fought across the battlefields of Flanders and France at the start of the Hundred Years War and gained the favour of English King Edward III.

When a traitor plots to undermine the king, William and Justin became embroiled in one of the most dastardly conspiracies of 14th Century Europe, which leads to an attack on William's estate and an assault on his wife.

Thirsting for revenge, Faulkner and his men ride with the army to the battle of Crecy, where he argues with Edward and is exiled. When he and his men are employed as mercenaries, they come across the vivimorts, the result of alchemist's attempts to cure the black death; a walking dead that create havoc and death among the people. There are worse mutations to come as the French king, Philip, uses the monsters as a weapon. England itself is in peril and the group of men must cross France in an attempt to stop the demonic multitude.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sante Books
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223504030

Book preview

Prologue

Siena, Italy, 1349

In the valley.

The constant slow banging on the gates was more disturbing to Father Bianchi and the brothers of the small monastery Saint Flavitus than the sounds of violence and screaming they had heard through the night from the small village nearby that bore the same name. In a land ravaged by bandits and in-fighting, attacks on the populace were not rare but this had been different. The shrieks and shouts had been terrible, the sounds of people crying for their lives had rung all around the buildings with people beating on the gates pleading for entry. The monks had learned long ago not to involve themselves in the frequent attacks that took place in their lands; the monastery was inviolate to both the banditry and the cruel soldiers of the local lords, neither wishing to invoke the wrath of god, as long as the brothers kept within their confines. They would venture out afterwards, giving succour to the sick and prayers to the dying, sometimes bringing unfortunates into the small infirmary. Father Bianchi hated this appointment, he was used to secluded priories where only infrequent travellers seeking shelter interrupted prayers and contemplation, why previous abbots had allowed the village to grow so large could only have been for the regular use of free labour and a ready market for the goods they produced. He knew eventually a catastrophe would befall them. Monastic and mundane lives did not sit well together and it was only a matter of time before events would escalate and the men of god would find themselves embroiled in the problems of those outside their world. The monks had prayed through the night as the awful sounds went on, so long, attacks were usually swift and brutal in this hamlet that nestled too close to the border but this time it had lasted until near dawn. Then silence. Then that ominous banging, slow and portentous.

‘Father,’ whispered brother Antonio, ‘surely no one can wish to harm us or they would break down the gates.’

‘Then why do they not answer, when we ask their business instead of that incessant groaning?’ the Abbott replied. No one could answer that.

The brothers were gathered in the garden behind the entrance. The wooden gates were strong but would not hold a determined assault. There was a pressing against them but no one was trying to break them down. The sun was rising, its bright light warming the soft brown walls of the cloisters behind them and the storehouse and guest house to their right and left. Aside stood the lay brothers, those men who took vows but not habits and carried out much of the manual labour, but they were few here, the villagers working the fields in return for a little of the harvest instead. Perhaps these fratres conversi could provide the solution to this dilemma. Father Bianchi pointed to the frightened lay brothers.

‘Open the gates but be prepared to close them again if anyone outside looks to endanger us.’

The men reluctantly went to the gates, the strange bowing making it difficult to tug the large iron latches that held them closed. They pulled and wriggled with the bolts when suddenly they came free and bodies crashed through the gates. Father Bianchi’s eyes were wild and his face crumpled as he saw people pouring and falling into the garden as the lay brothers vainly attempted to push the gates back into place. At least they looked like people but there was something odd about their faces. Their skin was grey, eyes sunken and dead, each appeared to have some kind of wound with blood showing on their necks, chins, almost everywhere. They showed no real recognition of their surroundings as those who had fallen slowly picked themselves up while others stumbled past them. Blankly, almost blindly, they lumbered sluggishly and almost silently towards the gathered monks, whose faces were struck with sheer terror.

‘Stop!’ cried the leader of the monastery. ‘you are not allowed in here!’ Even as he said them, he knew his words were useless, unheard, unrecognised by these abnormal interlopers. Several screams pierced the air, breaking the spell that had rooted the brothers to the ground. The cries came from the lay brothers who were being attacked by the intruders, but perhaps attacked was the wrong word for they bore no weapons and swung no fists but instead gripped the terrified brethren and began to bite them like animals. The lay brothers tried fighting back but were overwhelmed by numbers. A few had tools in their belts, chisels and knives, but stabbing their assailants came to nothing, with blades pushed into the chests and hearts they kept clawing and scratching. Men, women and children all joined in, teeth slashing into necks and biting into bodies as their victims went down and then they began to feast upon the bodies, ripping into their bellies plucking organs and viscera, devouring them as blood gushed over their hands and faces. The others came on like an army from hell, the dead arisen as spoken of in their holy books, gradually descending on the monks. Father Bianchi began to recognise some of these demons, more from the clothes they wore or their build rather than their ghoulish faces. The blacksmith, tall and broad in his leather apron, the baker, his white vest red with blood, the innkeeper’s wife, her corpulent body always conspicuous in a village of near poverty, so many of them now shells of humanity, a living dead with blank stares that held only one emotion, death.

‘Run!’ screamed the Abbot and the brothers of Saint Flavitus fled for their lives running through the cloisters towards the chapter house, the scriptorium, the chapel, anywhere that may hold a sanctuary from this unholy herd, but there was little hope. The tall walls that had protected them now became their prison as more of the fiends came in through the gates. As with all religious houses, few rooms had lockable doors and nowhere seemed to be safe from the horde bent on satiating their apparent thirst for blood. Some of the monks ran into the high-ceilinged chapel with its polished stone floor, rich wooden carved altar and depictions of the saint who lent his name to the monastery. The doors were quickly closed. Perhaps half of their number had fled here and the cries of the other half could be heard screaming as they fell to the ghouls. The ten brothers looked towards their leader. Father Bianchi shook his head. He didn’t know what was happening and he didn’t know what to do. Silence descended again as the monks huddled and prayed, then it came again, the banging, this time on the doors of the chapel and continued relentlessly as the few survivors sought salvation.

After a time that could have been anywhere between one hour and three, a door at the side of the nave creaked open and Father Bianchi was stunned to see three of his monks blunder into the chapel now with the same gaunt, blank looks, bite marks dripped blood from their necks and arms. What, in the name of the Holy Father, was going on? At the same time, the lesser doors of the chapel finally gave way to the pressure and once more the living dead headed towards the remaining men bent on final destruction. Father Bianchi lifted the heavy silver cross from the altar and, raising it, brought it down on the head of the blacksmith, who went down unmoving. The Abbot’s euphoria was short-lived as the throng overcame them and in a final twist of irony one of the village whores took the garroted artery of the monastery leader, his last vision in life being the embodiment of the temptation he had always tried to resist but had not always succeeded.

In the mountains.

After a summer and autumn of violence and danger, Sir William Faulkner and his men had wintered out in their stronghold in the mountains near Siena, the republic they were contracted to as condottiere or mercenaries. The fortress was far from the beaten track and its high position along a difficult trail on its southern side meant they would see any force from a distance; the east and west sides of the mountain were sheer cliffs that would make a mountain goat pale and the northern side route continued for many, many miles through empty steep valleys towards the coast and was an unlikely point of attack.

Around 800 men, roughly half of them English and the other half from different regions of France, those regions where you might receive a knife in the gut if you referred to them as ‘Frenchmen,’ lived there in the winter when there was little or no action to be had and the mercenaries had stocked it well with food, wine and ale, the staples of fighting men.

For their other main interest, many whores of the cheaper variety were happy to spend the cold months in constant employment, making enough money to allow many of them several years in comfort. There were also wives or the nearest thing to a wife that a man committed to fighting in a hard country could attract; many of them were former whores who had dedicated themselves to one man, so the voices of children rang through the small winding streets. The buildings, several centuries old, were built when there had been a trade route through the hills before bandits had forced merchants to abandon it, they were a mismatch of dressed and rough-cut stone, some high, some small but they were strong and warm, the insides made comfortable and a roaring fire countered the biting cold; beneath them were solid Roman foundations from the time when emperors held sway in the land. Some enterprising traders offered a variety of goods, from weapons to fine wines and even carried bolts of cloth for the women. These men were usually former soldiers who, through injury or age, were no longer fighters. It took hard men to deal with the volatile residents of the fortress.

Even a priest attended to their religious welfare; many said he had been forced to flee the church over his misuse of information gained in the confessional box. It was a safe haven for the men of Faulkner but woe betides any stranger who stumbled into their lair.

Italy was a country made up of independent and papal states with the strongest being Florence, Milan, Rome, Pisa, Genoa and Venice. These states were at near constant war with each other over trade and land disputes and the Italians realised it was better to hire others to fight and die for them than for their own people to go to war. The pay was good and the fighting was not too hard, at least not as hard as Faulkner and his troops were used to. They had served five six-month contracts but he doubted there would be a sixth as Siena was losing its power and before long wouldn’t have the funds to support a foreign army.

The state had attempted to fully ally itself with Florence but as yet had received no confirmation. Faulkner reasoned that it might be better to try to gain a contract directly with Florence rather than hope Siena would renew, or perhaps it was time to go home. But where was home?

They hadn’t always been mercenaries, the soldiers, or the majority of them, had landed in Normandy with the invading army of King Edward III and fought across France until the English finally met with the French, whose army had been known as ‘the greatest in Christendom,’ at the town of Crecy. That auspicious date was the 26th day of August in the year of Our Lord 1346 and on a hilltop in Italy Faulkner looked back on what had brought him to that field and what had occurred since.

Chapter 1

The county of Lancaster, England, 1328.

William John Faulkner was born the son of an impoverished knight in 1321. His father, John, had tried to hang on to their ailing estate in the county of Lancaster, but poor business acumen and a succession of poor harvests on the blighted piece of land they called home had caused him a significant amount of debt and heartbreak. The rambling house, over a hundred years old and in poor repair, was home to William and his younger brother Stephen. His mother had, so William was told, been unable to cope with the ailing finances and had left to live with a cousin two years earlier. His father refused to discuss his estranged wife and referred to her as ‘the whore.’

John Faulkner did his best to raise the boys in a manner befitting the sons of a knight but he was always those few pennies short of living comfortably. At one time, he had been affluent, if not rich, in the sense that many of his peers were but the Great Famine between 1315 and 1322 had wreaked havoc across the land; the usually prolonged periods of heavy rain had brought down landowners’ large and small and without having a reserve of gold to fall back on, John had suffered like most of the population, particularly the northerners. He had reflected bitterly that the famine had come on the back of the English defeat by the Scots at Bannockburn in which he had fought and nearly died. Was the famine the revenge of the Lord Almighty for the English arrogance, or did it serve as one more indication that King Edward, the second to bear that name, was cursed, as the people said?

Just as recovery began, he had found himself a father to two young boys in as many years and the task of surviving with any semblance of comfort had grown that little bit harder. That had been John’s life, always running after the cart but never quite catching up with it.

Within another three years, he had found himself as a single father and had hired a local widow to tend to the boys; she was kind enough and glad to have a roof over her head and she proved herself more faithful to the family than his wife had. As she had little education, John had to hire a tutor to teach the boys the basics of letters and numbers and this, again, had weighed heavily on his finances. Still, he was prudent enough to know that if they were to have any kind of future, education had to be part of it. John was ever grateful that several of his soldiers had stayed with him and seemed content enough to share his struggle on the land. At least they were fed, housed and supplied with drink, even if any coin was rarely forthcoming.

It was these men who had taught the boys the rudiments of fighting from a very young age and one of them could even ride well and so had instructed the lads on basic horsemanship too. Young William was showing promise. He was a tall, stocky child with quick reflexes and a manner about him that suggested that war was in his blood. Stephen was another kettle of fish altogether. Much slighter than his elder brother he showed no sign of interest in swordplay or even horseplay, whilst William was at home with the rough and tumble of the older men Stephen was reticent and preferred the indoors to the out, the book to the blade and the chair to the horse. John was certain he could place William as a page, and therefore on the path to a life as a knight, whilst Stephen seemed destined either for a monastery or, if he was lucky, a life as a scribe.

His father, housekeeper, tutor and the farmworkers raised William Faulkner in a family that, whilst not exactly full of love, provided him with a life of fun and adventure that suited his extrovert personality. His almost unnatural strength enabled him to stand up against the envious village boys who thought his family was landed gentry and not struggling as they were. William handed many a black eye or bloodied nose out. In contrast, Stephen didn’t fare so well and kept close to his brother and leaned on him for support.

At seven years old, William Faulkner had been sent to start his life as a page with Sir Mortimer Fairfax, a friend of his father’s from the Scottish wars. His house, Fairfax Hall, was a large estate of good farmland, mills and cattle-rearing that kept the coffers filled. Riding beside his father along a track flanked by large chestnut trees leading to the imposing gates, the boy saw for the first time the house itself, which was a grand affair of 17 bedrooms, and a large banqueting hall; it was the biggest place that Faulkner had seen in his young life. However, any thoughts of having a sumptuous room in the imposing house were soon disillusioned when they entered through the gates and he was directed to what looked like a barn but was in fact the accommodation for boys in training. His father was not a man for sentimental goodbyes and said nothing as Faulkner dismounted and was led away by one of Mortimer’s squires. John rode on to the house to meet with his old friend as William walked to his new life.

In the courtyard, several young knights stood laughing and joking as they waited for their horses to be brought by their pages from the stables to begin their tournament practice. Faulkner looked at the knights, resplendent in their armour, tall, proud and confident men. One day, he would be one of them and a thrill surged through the boy. This was his destiny. Even at such a tender age, he was certain of his future and felt no fear or regret at being left alone in this new home. Sir Mortimer was renowned for keeping a steady stable of good knights who earned their living by competing in the many tourneys that were held across the country where they participated in a series of challenges against each other to show off their martial skills for prizes or money. Their success was also a reflection of the men who trained them and Mortimer’s men brought him a great deal of esteem.

The events they participated in included the melee, where groups of knights fought each other in a mock battle, jousting, a one-on-one duel between mounted knights using wooden lances, sword challenges, often following a joust and general displays of military talents. Fatalities were common and injuries were a part of tournament life. The larger tourneys attracted knights from all over Europe.

The squire showed Faulkner around his new abode pointing out the training area, the stables, the knight’s accommodation, the refectory, where meals would be taken, the armoury where the weapons and all the accoutrements of war were kept and then finally took him to the building that would be his home for the next 14 years or so. Mortimer Fairfax, whilst not an unpleasant man, was a hard taskmaster and Faulkner would earn his spurs the hard way.

The life of a page consisted of the cleaning of nearly everything belonging to the many knights who lived at the manor, as at Sir Mortimer’s estate a page wasn’t assigned to one specific knight as was the normal way of things, he had knights of varying skills and these were passed onto the pages as they attended each knight in turn. The pages learned to ride, fight with sword and lance, read, write and even study a little music. They did most of this under the supervision of squires, the next step before knighthood, except for reading and writing, which were taught by priests. The squires were tough on the pages, likely in repayment for their own time in that position and any mistake or negligence in their tasks earned the pages a missed meal or a beating.

It was as a page that Faulkner met Justin des Ferrers, a boy of noble blood whose father was a stickler for discipline and had decided the lad should learn life the hard way, unlike his father who, with a hereditary title had never gone through the school of hard knocks the way that most did. Justin was a slight boy with a shock of blonde hair, compared to the dark-haired Faulkner who was tall and broad even as a youngster. Their paths had not crossed for the first two months, though they were on nodding terms. It was at an early morning training session that the two pages were pitted against each other with wooden training swords.

Faulkner assessed his opponent, who looked a little dejected; perhaps he was still homesick, poor lad reasoned Faulkner and he decided to take it easy on his fellow page, for Faulkner had practised since he was little more than a toddler and was much larger than the boy in front of him. As they squared up to each other, their respective squires were calling out to them to remember the basic moves: cut, thrust and parry and Faulkner made a tentative lunge towards his small adversary, a gentle touch on the boy’s chest or shoulder would earn him a strike.

In a blur, Justin knocked Faulkner’s sword aside and smacked him hard on the ribs. Ye gods, but he was fast! The dejected-looking face had transformed into a snarling fury as he began to slash left and right, advancing on Faulkner, who took a step back in amazement. With no need to take it easy, Faulkner launched into his usual fighting style to silence the jeers that followed the first strike. But it wasn’t easy. The small boy, although lacking in style and skill, had speed and ferocity. When the bout finally finished and Faulkner was adjudged the winner, he had taken a fair few stinging slaps and jabs from his smaller foe. As they walked from the circle, Justin’s face was once again calm, almost angelic as he leant towards him.

‘Thanks for taking it easy on me Faulkner, meet me behind the stables after duties. I’ve got a flagon of wine.’

The two young pages lounged in a wheat field, watching the setting sun and talking about their lives whilst imbibing the illicit wine. Pages weren’t banned from drinking but it was reserved for special occasions and always under strict supervision. That day began a lifelong friendship and a lifelong habit of breaking rules.

***

‘Hold up, William!’ shouted Justin as his friend galloped ahead of him along the track cut through sparse woodland. ‘You’re going the wrong way!’

‘Bollocks! I’m off to the Pilgrims Tavern for a few ales and a grope of the serving wench’s tits. The message can wait a bit.’ Said Faulkner as he reined in his horse and Justin slowed to a trot.

‘How come I never get a feel of her tits?’ whined Justin. ‘I always pay for the beer.’

‘Because you still look like a child,’ Faulkner told him. ‘and you always pay for the beer because you’ve got a rich father and I’m as skint as a church mouse!’

‘You spout some shit, Faulkner!’ Justin said indignantly. ‘I’m the same age as you and just because you’ve grown into a poxy giant doesn’t make me a kid!’

Faulkner laughed at his friend’s incensed face.

‘All right, Justin, I’ll make sure you cop a feel this time but it’ll cost you a bottle of wine for me. She’s not going to do it for nowt.’

In the eleven years since they had met the two had grown from naïve pages to experienced squires and had already mastered the seven points of agilities– riding, swimming and diving, shooting different types of weapons, climbing, participation in tournaments, wrestling, fencing, long jumping, and dancing–the prerequisite skills for knighthood. They performed all of these while wearing armour, except for swimming. Faulkner was very tall at 6’ 3" and had a broad and muscular build. His fighting skills were phenomenal and even veteran knights struggled to hold their own against him. He had swarthy good looks and an easy manner that ingratiated him with other people. He was also intelligent and had mastered tactics beyond his years, at least in theory at that point.

Justin had remained smaller at 5’ 8" and although he didn’t have the muscles that many of his peers had, he was still strong and had retained that speed that surprised many a bigger man. His hair had not darkened as it did with many blondes and his boyish looks had attracted unwanted attention from those who liked boys. Justin’s quick and ferocious temper had, however, kept him from the clutches of the paederasts. Also very clever with a quick brain, Justin had mastered the written word to the extent that he often corrected his teachers. There was talk that, although gifted in arms, he might find a better career in law. Justin dismissed this. He was determined to stay a knight and be by Faulkner’s side wherever life took them. The two were both well-respected, not only among the other squires and pages but also by the knights and household of Sir Mortimer. To this end, they were often given tasks, albeit menial, that were usually carried out by knights and that is why this day found them on route to deliver an important message to Banshaw castle, the home and demesne of Lord Robert Fitzmartin, liege lord of Sir Mortimer.

Dismounting outside the Pilgrims Tavern, the two squires handed the reins of their horses to a young stable boy who stepped forward eagerly as this pair were known as good tippers. Well, Justin was.

‘Rub them down and give them water but no feed, understand, lad?’ Faulkner said curtly but with a wink.

‘Yes sir,’ the boy answered. ‘I’ll clean their hooves too.’

Entering the smoky bar of the tavern, Justin coughed. Outside, the weather was sunny and crisp but inside it was cold and the first fire of the autumn had been lit, its grey smoke hanging in the air. The low-ceilinged, dark tavern was a little larger than typical village establishments but had the familiar smells of stale ale, body sweat and smoked meat that hung above the bar, as was to be found in most drinking dens. They settled at a table near a window and surveyed the Pilgrims Tavern, the nearest thing they had to a local bar. The clientele was the usual afternoon crowd of farmers, smiths and assorted tradesmen. As it wasn’t a market day, the bar was busy but not crowded. Many of the men bowed slightly to the squires, who were frequent visitors. Faulkner nodded to the man behind the bar counter who scooped two mugs of beer from a barrel, placing them on the counter where a young girl of 16, with long red hair, a large bosom and green eyes, usually noted by men in that order, picked them up and brought them to the table.

‘Ay up, Eve, you’re looking splendid today.’ Faulkner said with his eyes fastened to her chest, the laced top barely concealing her breasts. The girl placed the drinks on the table and blushed as she turned; her bottom wiggling as she moved away.

‘See that?’ Faulkner asked Justin. ‘She wiggled her arse at me; she’s up for it today.’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ Justin replied. ‘Half of the girls in this county fall for you and that includes married ones.’

‘Married ones are the best; they’re more grateful and not looking to trap you.’

‘Have you no honour?’ Justin asked, ‘Dallying with married women, what about the seventh commandment? Thou shalt not commit adultery?’

‘I’m not married; they’re the ones committing adultery.’ Faulkner countered.

‘Still…’ Justin said.

‘You know what they say, my moral friend, a slice off a cut loaf is never missed.’ Faulkner laughed.

‘You’re incorrigible.’ Justin told him.

‘And you’re spending too much time with those bloody priests. What kind of word is that?’

‘It means…’ Justin began.

‘I know what it bloody means, Father Justin. I just didn’t think anyone could slip it into a conversation in a tavern. Anyway, cheers.’ Faulkner raised his mug and took a long draw of the beer.

The two friends drank and chatted for a while about current events at their manor, Faulkner, all the time keeping a watchful eye on Eve. After their third beer, Faulkner stood and stretched.

‘I’m off to get the horses saddled. You finish your beer and meet at the stables.’ As he spoke, he winked at Eve. Justin knew the game.

‘Ten minutes and I’ll meet you there. Don’t forget our deal,’ Justin told him firmly. ‘I’ll pay up and get a bottle of wine.’

Fifteen minutes later, Justin was waiting in the stables as a smiling Faulkner came in through the rear door.

‘All right, she’s waiting for you, but don’t go at her like a bull at a heifer.’

Justin smiled, threw the bottle of wine to Faulkner and hurried out the back. Faulkner pulled the stopper from the wine and was savouring its tastes as four youths walked into the stable carrying a variety of weapons; hammers, knives and a club.

‘How do, lads?’ Faulkner smiled. ‘Are you here to clean the stables out?’

‘Shut your fucking smart mouth!’ The biggest of the four said. He was of a similar build to Faulkner, but a little shorter with a face like a rat. The squire recognised him as Wat, the blacksmith’s son.

‘We’re sick of you coming here and using our girls,’ Wat said with a snarl. ‘Eve’s not a whore!’

‘I know,’ said Faulkner, ‘she’s never charged me anything.’

‘Big as you are, we’re going to cut you down to size. We’re not poncy squires; we’re proper fighting village lads.’

Faulkner glanced over at his sword on top of his saddle in a recess. He shrugged. It wasn’t needed. Feeling that thrill of excitement in his stomach prior to a fight, he threw his arms in the air, keeping hold of the bottle.

‘Hey lads, can’t we talk about this? No need for violence, eh?’

‘See!’ snapped Wat. ‘Told ya they’s all fucking bluffers and cowards, these nancy Lord’s boys.’

The others straightened their backs as they took a step towards their quarry.

‘All I’m saying is, we don’t have to fight over a girl. We could fight over you cheeky fuckers disrespecting me!’

With that, he moved quickly towards Wat, his left arm knocking the long hammer aside as his right hand smashed the wine bottle into the side of the bully’s head. The smith’s son went down like a sack of potatoes amidst the shattered glass. Without losing momentum, Faulkner spun and kicked his second opponent in the balls. The knife clattered to the floor as the youth clutched his groin, emitting a high-pitched wail. The other two stepped back; this wasn’t how Wat had told them it would go down.

‘I can pick up that knife and gut you two fuckers like fish or you can take these sacks of shit and fuck off out of here. What’s it to be?’

The two young men nodded and went to assist their friends. One staggered away crying about his ruined manhood but Wat was out cold and had to be carried away.

‘Sorry about that Sir Squire, t‘weren’t my idea or nowt, that Wat bullied us into coming along.’ Stammered one of the two youths.

‘Just fuck off and don’t let me see your faces again.’ Faulkner said dismissively.

Looking around, Faulkner saw the stable boy standing wide-eyed and pale in the corner. He took a coin from his purse and flipped it to the lad.

‘Go get me another bottle of wine from the tavern.’

As he passed by, the boy shook his head.

‘Never seen nowt like that before.’ He mumbled.

‘Oh, you should see my friend. He’s much faster than me,’ smiled the knight.

Faulkner busied himself saddling the horses and putting their packs onto the mounts. As he buckled on his sword, the stable boy came back with the wine and it disappeared into the saddle pack. The rear door opened and a grinning Justin appeared through it.

‘Did you get a grope then?’ Faulkner asked.

‘I most certainly did, and I got my hand up her skirt.’

He raised his arm, proffering his fingers to his friend’s nose. Faulkner slapped it away from the laughing Julian.

‘You dirty little bastard! She wouldn’t let me do that!’

Glancing around, Justin noted the broken wine bottle. Faulkner shrugged.

‘It slipped from my fingers. Pay the stable boy Justin, good lad.’

Faulkner was enjoying the late afternoon sunshine as they rode through the lush green York countryside but Justin was fretting about the time.

‘He said it was an important message, not an urgent one.’ Faulkner told him. ‘Besides, if we get there late, we’ll have to stay the night and I hear that the food at Lord Fitzmartin’s place is a damn sight better than at home.’

This seemed to mollify Justin and they continued at a sedentary pace, taking in the sights and sounds. It seemed lately, now that they trained pages, that they rarely got outside and certainly never with this much freedom. The beers had taken their effect and Faulkner was mellow as he picked out the various trees they passed. The mighty oak that was used in the building, the spreading beech trees, silver birches, and the yews used for bows.

‘What was that about bows?’ asked Justin.

‘Ah, shit, I’m mumbling to myself. I feel a bit pissed.’

‘We only had three beers.’ Stated Justin.

‘And I necked half that wine before I dropped it.’

‘We’re not far away now; anyway,’ said Justin, ‘you can get your head down in a bit.’

As they crested the next hill, Faulkner stood in his stirrups.

‘Can you hear that? Sounds like fighting.’ Faulkner was suddenly alert as the sounds of ringing steel and yells became distinct. The two squires urged their horses down the hill to a track and the sounds of fighting.

A carriage of some value was stopped in the road; liveried soldiers were engaged in heavy fighting with what appeared to be brigands, judging by their rough dress. These gangs of marauding thieves were a blight on the land but in these hard times men became desperate and