Porridge

The Witch's Daughter: Chapter 8. Tension worsens among the Norman invaders over a surprise disappearance. Hilde starts a new day over breakfast with a friend and realises her town is not safe.

“Keep those men in formation!” FitzStephen bellowed, peering eastwards, up the road, into the dusk. The snaking line of torches wound out of sight, one or two ragged breakers of rank detouring through the undergrowth. He yanked the reins of his warhorse, moving around the bole of a large ash tree that jutted out into the roadway.

His sergeant, moonlight glinting off the steel of his helm, raised a mailed fist in acknowledgement. The sergeant’s crisp orders joined tramping feet and the rattle of bows on the night air. One of the men returning to rank copped a blow from the flat of the sergeant’s sword.

It was only a short time since they’d left the waterhole and already the march was a damn mess. Still, they’d be at camp at the place Prendergast’s man Giffard had found them in time for compline. If luck was about to change perhaps that lying drunken Irish King mac Murchada would be there to greet them with supplies.

The Norman knight stuck out his square chin, and straightened in the saddle of his destrier to present the best profile to his men, as he tugged the reins around to check on the tail of the army. The salt sea air more brisk in the late hour, stirred tendrils of dark cloud across the face of the moon. An owl coasted silently across the deep blue black of the heavens, the passage of its mighty wings marked only by stars winking out and back.

As he passed the ranks of archers, and neared the tail, the men at arms footfalls sounded heavily in the silence of the Irish coastal evening, their grumbling advance losing its rhythm as they straggled along in the narrow roadway.

The tail of his army here passed a cross roads of a sort. It widened the carriageway as small logging trails hacked into the underbrush led away north and south. A stone marker stood here also, graven with some message long covered in moss.

In the distance, past the knights who kept up the rear of the column, a shout went up. Prendergast’s men.

Damn Prendergast — where the hell was he? His lot were an ill-disciplined rabble.

More shouts, and hooves.

One of Prendergast’s knights breaking rank? If Strongbow hadn’t pushed for that damn eerie irish-loving derelict to land with him the whole mission would have been so much simpler.

The sound of hooves on the muddy roadway got louder and the knights called out an alert. The Thomond prince staggered along sullenly behind, his hands bound in a tether, and a rear-guardsman pulled him out of FitzStephen’s way.

A figure appeared from the side of the second column, riding up into the gap between the two armies. The Norman knight urged his horse forward. His men made way for him to pass alongside the column, and he rode out into the open area of the cross roads.

The other rider bought his horse to a halt, and the knights of his army, still marching forward, split and went around him.

Infernal damnation! What is that God forsaken annoying Flemish dullard playing at.

“Prendergast! Do you want my sword to your throat!” FitzStephen called, as the mounted soldier approached, pushing the tree branches aside as he squeezed between the column of soldiers and the overhanding greenery.

“Je suis Giffard, Monsieur!” the man responded.

“Where on earth is Prendergast?” FitzStephen bellowed.

“You act innocent now! You are the back stabber! You threat his life earlier! Now our commander is gone?” Giffard called. His Norman-English patois degenerated and his southern French accent grew strong as he shook his fist. “Hand him over now!”

“My army is three times yours! French idiot!” FitzStephen yelled. His sword was half drawn from its scabbard.

“Allez!” Giffard shouted. The columns of Prendergast’s knights either side of FitzStephen moved to surround him. “Not at this moment, Monsieur! His body or your life!”