Army Huntsman

Savaric of Witney

Copyright (c) 2009 Mike Bond

Savaric sat his palfrey and looked up at the great grey edifice of Gloucester Castle. Shields, banners and buntings were draped over the battlements showing that William Rufus, King of all England was in residence for the Yuletide festivities. With the knight was his squire, Luke, and Luke’s father, Leofwin.

Four long years he’d been away. Away on the Great Pilgrimage called for by Pope Urban the second in 1095. He left as little more than a boy, and now, on his return, was a battle-hardened man. Leofwin broke into his thoughts. Both he and his son were looking up at the castle in wonderment.

“Master? Will we see the King hisself?”

“You’ll see him ride out, there’s no question,” Savaric answered him. “Our King’s a great huntsman. Oh, you’ll see him, never fear.”

“How long will we be staying, Master?” Luke asked.

“Well, boy, I’m the King’s liegeman. It depends on my duties. Now. I want you and your father to go ahead and see to the horses and yourselves. You’ll be well received. You wear your crosses on your back with honour, as do I.”

He referred to the little white crosses that were worn on sleeves or chests on the way to the Holy Land. Those who completed the mission, who took part in the taking back of Jerusalem from the Muslims, wore their crosses on their backs, showing they’d taken part in the battle for the Holy City.

“‘Tis a fact, Master,” Leofwin said. “Old Rondo ‘ere’s thrown a shoe. I must get ‘im set and settled.”

Just as he said that, the great destrier tossed his head up and down and danced back and forth as though in agreement. All three men laughed. “More ‘uman than any of us,” chuckled Leofwin. “You be all right, Master?” he asked.

“Oh, I think I can make my way safely enough.” Savaric smiled as he watched father and son ride off through the rough winter brush and start to make their way up to the castle. He owed his life to both of them.

He allowed his mind to travel back to the time they were crossing the hellish Anti Taurus range on their way to Antioch. The path was so narrow; a rock face on their left and a sheer drop to jagged rocks far below on their right. They’d already lost a number of horses and mules that had slipped and dragged the others tied to them over the cliff with them. A number of men simply lost their nerve, and stood in huddled, terrified little groups, their faces turned to the solid rock. Suddenly, a knight came shoving his way through and passed Savaric on the inside, pushing him out towards the drop. Savaric found himself slipping and eventually clinging by his hands as he dangled over the abyss.

Suddenly, strong hands grabbed his wrists and he felt himself being lifted bodily out of danger. Both he and his rescuer collapsed against the rock face. When Savaric was able to gather his wits, he asked the man his name.

“Leofwin, Master. I’m of your party. I’m a smithy by trade.”

“Then, good smithy, you’ve saved my life. This won’t be forgotten.”

And so the friendship was born. Leofwin, his son Luke and his wife, Rebecca, who was Jewish. “We say nought of ‘er religion, Master. There’s them as hates her nation.”

Savaric had heard tales of terrible pogroms against the Jews in Germany. The worst perpetrator of atrocities was one Emicho of Leiningen. The story had come to Savaric that a man named Isaac of Worms had a rope tied about his neck and was dragged through the filth and mud of the streets. Then his persecutors asked him if he wished to convert to Christianity. Unable to speak, he simply drew a finger across his neck. So they cut off his head. Little wonder, then, that Leofwin feared for his wife.

Savaric made young Luke his squire, and they finally arrived outside the walls of Antioch. Because of his prowess with weapons, Savaric had risen in the ranks to command a conroi of 25 men. He was in the army of the great Robert, Count of Flanders, and in late October rode with him to take the town of Artah, considered the ‘shield of Antioch.’ They travelled with 1000 men, and in the event just the presence of the knights was enough to cause the town to fall.

The year wore on to deep winter, and great suffering was experienced by the whole pilgrimage. They never expected the weather to be cold, but as one knight wrote to his wife, it proved as bad if not worse than France. Icy rain like needles turned the whole, huge camp into a quagmire. Savaric realized that, rain or no, his conroi must be kept battle-ready and fit. He demanded weapons training every day, each man using practice swords of wood twice the weight of the real ones. He himself used ones thrice that.

Then one day the man who’d pushed him over the cliff squelched past Savaric’s camp, where Leofwin had set up his smithy. He was with an older man, who was apparently his father. They heard Leofwin call to Rebecca. They stopped, then moved closer.

“She a Jew bitch?” the younger one called.

“What’s it to you?” Leofwin yelled back.

“This is how we handle Jew bitches,” and before anyone knew what was happening, the younger man drew his knife and threw it straight at Rebecca, catching her in the throat. For a few moments, Leofwin, Savaric and Luke stood as though transfixed. Then Leofwin gave a growl more animal than human, picked up one of his huge anvils, and charged towards the younger man, who’s name was Bertolf. The German drew his sword and Savaric yelled at Leofwin to stop. The latter heaved the massive anvil at Bertolf, but it fell short, and thudded into the rain-soaked ground. Savaric’s sword was out.

He advanced on Bertolf, but his father, one Hartrad, stepped in front of his son, his own sword drawn.

“Fight me, you French shit,” he grated in his broken French. He swung his sword at Savaric, who stepped out of reach, then moved in hard. The German retreated under the onslaught, but managed to evade any injury. Then Savaric feinted to his right, causing Hartrad to follow. Like lightening Savaric moved back to the left, and the German slipped in the mud. With a mighty forehand slice, Savaric took the top of the German’s head clean off, as a diner might slice open an egg.

Bertolf had moved in by then to help his father, and Hartrad’s brains flew in dollops all over him. Hartrad stood there for a few moments, a look of surprise in his eyes. Then he fell forward and landed with a splash near Savaric’s feet. Bertolf spat away the contents of Hartrad’s head from around his mouth, and wiped the rest away with the back of his hand.

“By God, you’ll pay for this,” he rasped.

“You killed my friend’s wife. Did you really think that deed would go unpunished? A life for a life, you German dog.”

Bertolf hefted his sword as though he was about to make another attack on Savaric, but thought better of it. “You wait. You’ll suffer. By God, you’ll suffer.”

“Get that lump of offal out of my camp,” Savaric growled. “And if I so much as see you again, you’ll go the same way as that.” He indicated Hartrad with his sword.

Savaric, Leofwin and Luke watched as Bertolf struggled to pick his father up and heave him over his shoulder. Without another glance, he staggered off through the mud. Rain had started falling again, needles of ice, and the three Frenchmen took cover in Leofwin’s forge, Leofwin first carrying Rebecca into shelter from the rain.

There’ll be a lot more adventures of Savaric now he’s in England, in the weeks to come.

About the Author

Then one day the man who’d pushed him over the cliff squelched past Savaric’s camp, where Leofwin had set up his smithy. He was with an older man, who was apparently his father. They heard Leofwin call to Rebecca. They stopped, then moved closer.
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