The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,28
he was hardly going to share it with them. There were days he hated his job, and this was one of them. He should have been at home with his wife and children.
But then, of course, he’d need a wife and children in the first place. Instead he had bastards – because what man didn’t – and two or three women who probably considered themselves his wives. Sir John Hawkwood, his first captain, had let his troops travel with camp followers. In the end a much younger Towler had summoned the courage to ask why, since they slowed the troop down, caused fights and stole the stores. If the worst comes to the worst you can always eat them. He still didn’t know if Sir John had been joking. It was possible he meant every word. Will we end up eating human flesh? Captain Towler considered the question and decided it depended on how hungry they got.
“All right, Captain?”
Towler scowled at his sergeant.
“You sighed like you meant it.”
He’d been wishing he had a priest along to tell him how much forgiveness of a sin like that would cost. “We need to make camp soon.”
His sergeant flicked a glance at the darkening sky. The snow would reflect tonight’s full moon, making it light enough for any bandits to find them. The lack of cloud cover also meant it would be colder than ever; what little warmth the world still possessed stolen by eternity. “We’ll need a fire.”
“Then send men to find wood. Is Evans back yet?”
Evans was their archer, disliked by the sergeant but useful all the same. He could outshoot most men, and a longbow in a forest like this was the difference between life and death for all of them. The last animal Evans killed was a wolf, more bones and sores than ribs. It tasted like week-dead carrion but they ate it all the same and cracked its thicker bones for the marrow. The captain hoped Alonzo had food enough. He’d have a mutiny on his hands if not.
“He’s over there, Captain . . .”
The archer looked flustered and scared as he slid and slipped his way downhill towards the road. His long face was red and puffy, his overfull lips taut as he gasped down gulps of air. “Bandits?” Towler demanded.
Evans shook his head and the captain relaxed slightly. The stragglers in his troop had arrived by the time Evans finally caught his breath enough to tell them he’d seen hunting. But, first, the sergeant got his usual insults in.
“Sod seen, you Welsh bastard. Did you catch anything?”
When Evans shook his head the sergeant turned away to spit and almost missed the corporal’s words. “Saw a cat though . . .”
Wild cats might live this close to the treeline, Captain Towler thought. You could eat cat, he’d done that more than once. Better than rat, certainly better than wolf. Although even wolf was better than nothing. If there was one cat up here, maybe there were more. Maybe it had a mate and kittens.
“This big.” Evans held his hand waist-high.
Towler steered him away from the others, nodding to the sergeant to say he could follow. Evans looked sober enough, and where would he have found spirits this far into a march? The hill villages were deserted and the towns in the valleys where they’d billeted so poor that to find thin beer was a treat. “This big?” The sergeant’s voice was a mocking echo of his own.
Evans held his gaze and nodded. “Yellowy with spots,” he said. “Ripped a hare right open with a single bite and ran faster than a galloping horse. It dodged my bloody arrow as if it was a feather falling.”
“If it was really that big,” Towler said, “you’re lucky to be alive.”
Evans nodded soberly. “Do you think . . .?”
“No, I don’t, and nor do you, understand?” Captain Towler watched his Welsh archer join the others, glance nervously back at the captain and begin talking anyway. They were superstitious fools and the last thing Towler needed was his men getting spooked by reports of were-beasts and worse.
It he didn’t find them food soon he’d have to give them another hanging. He’d like to start with Evans but the Welshman was too valuable so it would have to be the last recruit. A dark-faced Sicilian who swore his family had never been heathen. No one believed him or much liked him either.