‘Say a word and I will kill you,’ a voice said from behind me.
I felt warm breath on the side of my face. All I could see was the blade and the hand holding it. I tried to turn my head but straightaway the knife was drawn closer and I swallowed, feeling the sharp edge press against my skin.
‘Don’t turn around.’ The voice was gruff and spoke with a tone of conviction, and I knew he meant what he said. ‘Take off your sword.’ He spoke French well, I noticed, without any accent that I could discern. ‘Slowly,’ he added.
I did as I was asked, undoing the iron buckle and letting the sword-belt fall to the ground beside me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him extend a foot, using his heel to kick the scabbard back towards him.
‘Now, on your knees.’
I did not move, trying to work out how I might escape. Who was this man?
The blade pressed tighter. ‘On your knees,’ the voice repeated.
I had little choice, I realised, and so did as he said. The ground here was still soft, and the water standing on its surface made it slightly slippery. The knife remained at my neck; a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Fulcher,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. I only hoped it was not a moment too long. ‘Fulcher fitz Jean.’ I was not going to give him my real name, and my old friend’s was the first that came into my head.
‘Whom do you serve?’
My mind raced. I did not dare mention Malet’s name after lying about my own. ‘Ivo de Sartilly,’ I said. ‘The lord of Suthferebi,’ I added, as if to bear it out.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ the voice said. ‘Or this place Suthferebi. He sent you here?’
I was not sure whether that meant he did not believe me. ‘He did.’ How far I could go with this ruse I did not know.
The man grunted. ‘Then he is a fool. As are you for serving him.’
I did not know what to say, and so I said nothing.
‘Who else knows?’
‘Knows what?’ I asked. It was a stupid response, likely to anger him more than anything else, but I needed time if I was going to think of a way out, and I had no answer that was more sensible. And what did he mean, in any case?
‘Don’t play games with me,’ he warned, speaking directly into my ear. ‘Ivo de Sartilly and who else?’
‘Would you spare me if I told you?’ I asked.
He laughed, and at that moment I jerked my head back, connecting with some part of his face, as I threw my whole body backwards. The knife-blade followed, flashing across my cheek, but I did not feel it as I twisted and threw myself at the man’s legs. Cursing, he fell forward, across me, and I heard the thump as he hit the ground. I scrambled forward over the ground to reach my scabbard, just as I heard him rise and draw his own sword free. I tugged my blade from its sheath; it slid out quickly and I turned to face him, still on my back, sword raised above my face.
‘Bastard,’ he said as he towered over me, and I saw his face for the first time. Blood streamed from his mouth and his eyes were full of hate. He wore mail, but had neither helmet or coif to protect his head, and I saw from the cut of his hair what I had suspected from hearing his voice. He was a Norman.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ he said, and he came at me, raining blows wildly. I parried the first, but his sword-edge came perilously close to my face, and so I rolled away from the second, and again from the third, his blade coming crashing down each time inches from where I lay. He lifted his weapon too high for the fourth and I saw an opening, driving my sword up towards his groin, but I missed, managing only a glancing blow on his chausses. He stumbled back out of sword-reach, for a heartbeat looking as though he might fall to the mud again. He did not, but it gave me time to get to my feet.
‘You’ll pay,’ he said, wiping some of the blood from his face. ‘As will your lord.’
I stared silently back at him, wielding my sword before me. His prominent chin was unshaven, and his eyes were deep-set, with an ugly scar above his left. In all he looked perhaps five years older than myself.
He lunged forward, aiming for my chest. I took his sword on my own, quickly stepping around to my right, hoping to kick or trip him from behind, but I was not quick enough, for he had already turned by the time I was ready.
He gave a sarcastic smile. ‘You fight well, Fulcher fitz Jean,’ he said, and he stepped forward, feinting with his sword, tempting me into an attack, but I was well used to such tactics and refused to be drawn in. We circled about, watching each other intently.