Warriors by Jack Ludlow Page A

of which he was full surfacing the more he drank.
    To be taller than most was not enough when you have several gigantic brothers; to be proficient with weapons never satisfied when those same brothers could best you every time. As the youngest of the elder branch, a year older than Robert, he had been a newborn babe when Tancred took a new wife, and had consequently missed the tenderness of his own mother more than his older siblings and he had also grown up seeing the likes of Robert favoured over him.
    He could be surly even when sober, and while all the family had mischief built into their being, Serlo had a quality that tended to the devious and slightly cruel. He was also naturally light-fingered, and could be relied upon to lift anything not family-owned if left unattended. The pity was, that night, and in his mood, he took to wandering, with a cheerful half-brother at his heels; a tragedy that they met Count Hugo de Lesseves, he having accepted the hospitality of a noble cousin, and swapped his damp tent for a straw palliasse in the castle; a misfortune that he, too, had partaken of too much wine and had stepped out of his chamber to use the relieving pot.
    Bleary-eyed Serlo recognised him, as much by the colours of his surcoat as the contours of his face. Besides that, there was the count’s haughty manner, and his words, on being reminded of the previous day’sencounter, came out as a near repeat of the insults he had issued then. When called upon by Serlo to withdraw them while still pissing, he turned, laughed, and aimed the jet of yellow fluid at Serlo’s feet.
    ‘Leave it be, brother,’ Robert slurred, giving Serlo one of his back thumps that were always too hard, making the recipient stagger forward and shoulder the count.
    ‘Get off, you rank-smelling oaf.’
    Neither Robert nor the count saw the knife come out, and certainly the victim only knew of it when it entered under his rib cage and upwards, hitting him hard enough to make him double forward until his head was on Serlo’s shoulder. The hand that held the blade was moved without a thought, in the way Serlo had been taught since childhood to use it in battle, raking up and across to make sure the stab became fatal.
    Robert’s vision was blurred enough for him to be unsure what it was gurgling out of the count’s open mouth, but it was only moments before he knew it to be blood, and it was only then he realised what Serlo had done. He grabbed him by the top of his surcoat and dragged him backwards, an act which brought out the knife from the count’s ruptured guts, sending a fount of blood pumping from the damaged heart. The man was dead before his body crashed onto the stone floor, at which point one of his servants, a young boy, came out and, seeing him bleeding on the floor, let out a high-pitchedscream which would not have disgraced a girl.
    Still holding Serlo’s collar, a rapidly sobering Robert dragged his brother away. Suddenly aware of what he had done, his horrified gaze fixed on the body, Serlo dropped the knife at the same time as his belligerence, and he started to gasp to God for forgiveness, a sound which had turned into a maudlin wail by the time his brother got him far enough away to even begin to think. There was no choice but to wake Tancred, and he, once his head had cleared enough to comprehend the enormity of what had happened, knew he must wake his clerical nephew.
    ‘We must get Serlo away. He will face the gallows if we do not.’
    Montbray looked at his cousin, now sat with his head in his hands, clearly regretting what he had done in his moment of madness, while Robert stood at the entrance to the chamber ready to do battle should anyone come for him. For Montbray the dilemma was obvious: if there was not a hue and cry already, there soon would be. De Lesseves’ knights, once someone had found their encampment and told them, would either come for Serlo with their swords out or, if they had more sense, make sure their