Read The Ill-Made Knight for Free Online Page A

pointed the bow down as John had, lifted it and loosed his arrow in one great swinging motion. His right hand went back almost to his ear, and the arrow sang away to bury itself in the butt – it was no great shot, yet done so effortlessly as to show mastery, just as a goldsmith or cordwainer might do some everyday craft so that you’d see their skill.
    An armourer once told me that any man might make one fine helmet, but that a master armourer made one every day just as good.
    At any rate, the master archer watched his arrow a moment. ‘You know how to shoot,’ he admitted to John. ‘Have your own bow?’
    ‘No,’ John confessed.
    The old man nodded. Spat. ‘Armour?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ John said.
    ‘Sword?’ he asked.
    ‘No.’ John was growing annoyed.
    ‘Buckler?’ the old man pressed on.
    ‘No!’ John said.
    ‘Rouncey?’ the old man asked. ‘I am only taking for a retinue. We ride.’
    ‘No!’ John said, even more loudly.
    The old man laughed; it was a real laugh, and I liked him instantly. He laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. ‘Then you shall have to owe me your pay for many days, young man,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll buy you a cup of wine, then we’ll go and find you some harness.’
    ‘I’d like to come to France,’ I said.
    He nodded. ‘Can you pull a bow?’ he asked.
    I hung my head. ‘Not a war bow,’ I admitted. ‘But I can fight.’
    ‘Of course you can. God’s pity on those who cannot. Can you ride?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    That stopped him. He paused and turned back. ‘You can ride, boy?’ he asked.
    ‘I can joust. A little,’ I admitted. ‘I can use a sword. My father was a knight.’ The words came unbidden.
    ‘But you have no gear.’
    I nodded.
    He looked at me. ‘You are a big lad, and no mistake, and if your hair is any sign of your fire, you’ll burn hot. I misdoubt that my lord will take you as a man-at-arms with no arms of your own, but you look likely to me. Can you cook?’
    Here I was, being measured as a potential killer of men, and suddenly I was being asked if I could cook. I could, though.
    ‘I can cook and serve. I can carve. I know how to use spices.’ I shrugged. It was true enough.
    He reached into his purse and handed me flint and a steel. ‘Can ye start a fire, lad?’
    ‘I could if I had dry tow, some bark and some char,’ I said. ‘Only Merlin could start a fire with flint and steel alone.’
    He nodded and pulled out some charred linen and a good handful of dry tow.
    I dug a shallow hole with my heel because of the wind and gathered twigs. I found two sticks and made a little shelter for my bird’s nest of fire makings, and laid some char cloth on my nest of tow. Then I struck the steel sharply down on the flint, with a piece of char sitting on the flint. I peeled minute strips of metal off the face of the steel with the flint – that’s really what a spark of metal is, as any swordsman can see, just a red-hot piece of metal, too small to see. A few sparks fell on my charred linen and it caught. I laid it on my nest and blew until I had flame, and laid the burning nest on the ground and put twigs on top.
    The old man put out my fire with one stomp of his booted foot. ‘Can you do it in the rain?’ he asked.
    ‘Never tried,’ I admitted.
    ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘You ain’t a rat. Too many little rats in the wars. If I take you to France to help cook, you’ll still get to France. Understand me, boy?’
    ‘Will I fight?’ I asked.
    He smiled. It was a horrible smile. ‘In France, everyone fights,’ he said.
    So I went to France as the very lowest man in a retinue: the cook’s boy.
    It’s true. In Italy, they still call me Guillermo le Coq – William the Cook. It’s not some social slur. When I started fighting in Italy, I was riding with men who could remember when I was their cook’s boy.
    Because in France, everyone fights.
    We’re almost to Poitiers, so hold your horses. I went and said goodbye to my