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Clarent
By Newton Webb
1153, the Welsh Marches
The dead lay thick across the ridge.
English and Welsh lay twisted together in the mud. Crows moved among them with patient little hops, black heads dipping for eyes, tongues, and the soft meat beneath torn mail. Camp followers picked through the bodies, stripping the dead of their valuables and dignity.
Now and then one of the wounded cried out.
The cry never lasted long.
Lord Henry de Roux had won and Eudo was dead. The uncle who had taken Henry’s castle, stolen his inheritance, and named him bastard before bishop and sheriff alike now lay beneath his own trampled banner. His head, blackened with pitch, would hang above the gate at Chetten Keep before sunset.
Seven years of hunger, fighting, betrayal, and sleeping under wet branches had ended here.
Peace had returned to his house.
The thought sickened him.
Henry tightened his grip on the hilt at his side.
A crow landed near his boot and stabbed its beak into a dead man’s open mouth. Henry clapped at it. The bird looked up, unafraid, one white shred of flesh hanging from its beak.
“Go on,” Henry snarled.
The crow swallowed and returned to its work.
“My liege.” Martin, his page, held out a cup. “I bring wine.”
Henry ignored him. He’d promised peace to starving men, to dying boys whose hands clutched at his cloak. One more charge, one more winter, one more village burned, one more oath broken. Then they’d have peace.
He’d kept his promise, but no longer recognised himself as the man who had made it.
1146, the Forest of Dean
The young Henry de Roux hid beneath stacked wood in a charcoal burner’s shed, listening to the rain.
Rats moved in the dark beside him. One ran across his ankle and vanished into the straw. He did not cry out. Once, he’d been lord of Chetten Keep, heir to limestone walls, fishponds, deer parks, and a chapel where his family’s bones lay interred. His last retainer, Master Alain, was trying to gather support from the Marcher lords. Until he returned, Henry had nothing more than space in a shed, grudgingly rented from a charcoal burner for two silver pennies. The man would no doubt sell him out now Eudo’s men were close.
Eudo had taken the castle while Henry was away with his retinue, riding for Matilda. By the time Henry returned, the gates were barred, his servants had sworn new oaths, and the priest who’d baptised him had declared before the altar that God favoured Eudo’s stronger claim.
“Henry de Roux.” A woman spoke outside the shed.
He froze.
Her voice was low, the language shaped by Greek vowels. Henry eased his hand to the knife at his belt and pushed aside the wood.
She stood in the rain beyond the door in a cloak of undyed wool, carrying a long, thin object wrapped in altar cloth. Her dark hair was uncovered, curls falling around her face. No decent woman went bareheaded before a strange man, yet she watched him with the composure of an abbess.
Her cheekbones were sharp, her eyes black and steady. “So, this is where they drove you.”
Henry couldn’t place her accent. He rose slowly, his joints aching from the cold. “Who are you?”
“Theophania.”
He stepped from the shed into the mud. “How do you know me?”
“I know many men who have had their names stolen.”
Rain slid over her face. Her skin seemed untouched by the cold. Around one wrist hung bronze rings, inset with bone.
Henry made the sign of the cross.
Theophania watched him complete the gesture. “A Christian? And how much has your crucified god helped you?”
“Careful.” The knife felt pitiful beneath his hand. “I’ll not tolerate heresy.”
Theophania dismissed the knife with a glance. “Your uncle sits in your hall, drinking from your father’s cup. The priest says Mass beneath your roof and prays for Eudo de Roux as lawful lord.” Amusement warmed her black eyes. “I think… your crucified god favours him, not you.”
“Never!” Somewhere beyond the dripping leaves, Eudo’s men were coming. Any day now, his body could be dragged to Chetten Keep in a cart, headless. “What do you want with me?”
“To give you a weapon.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“A weapon that will let you return to your hall and see your uncle on his knees.”
Henry should have crossed himself again, but this time he hesitated.
“What price?”
Theophania came close enough for him to smell her. Beneath the delicate perfume of roses lay the sourness of sweat.
“A lesser man could pay me with a kiss.” She leaned in close.
Henry tried to look away and could not. “That’s all?”
“No, you’re not a normal man. Give me the seed of your house, and I will see you reclaim it.”
Thunder moved over the trees. Theophania let the cloak fall. Rain struck her olive coloured skin.
Henry meant to step back. Instead, his knife slipped from his hand. He fell back against the woodpile, his breath quickening as she undid his trews.
She kissed him, and the warmth of her mouth drove the cold from his bones. As she mounted him, he saw his uncle Eudo on his knees. He watched the priest who had betrayed him hanging from the chapel bell rope. His hands clenched around the wood as he imagined the sight of men scattering before him as he wore a crown of iron.
When she had what she wanted, she rose from him, leaving him panting on the wood.
Theophania reached down to where she had disrobed and reclaimed the parcel she’d been carrying. The cloth was stained brown with age. When she loosened it, a plain iron sword lay within, its blade the length of two forearms. Its metal was darkened by the rain. She reached between her thighs, gathered the wetness there, and drew it down the blade. The iron drank it. “Take it. Your seed has woken it.”
His heartbeat quickened at the sight of it. “This is poor iron. My own blade was better made.” He pulled up his trews.
“Pretty blades are made for courts. This is made for killing.” Her finger followed the edge without touching the iron. “It’ll neither break nor dull.” Theophania held out the sword.
A horn sounded in the distance.
Uncle’s men.
Henry swallowed. “You want me to renounce Christ?”
“You already have.”
He turned back, but she was gone, the blade left impaled in the mud. She’d vanished without a sign.
His hand closed around the hilt. Before he understood what he was doing, he had pulled it from the earth. Its blade was clean, free of the soil. He hefted it. The weight was perfect.
Heat moved up his arm. As the cold left him, so did his fear.
Clarent. The Sword of Peace.
Henry smiled for the first time in weeks. He held Clarent before him as he stepped from the shed and into the muddy track.
He found the first of Eudo’s knights dismounting in front of him. “Greetings, little lord.” The man looked at Henry’s face, streaked with mud, and laughed. “Come out of your hole at last?”
Henry raised the blade. He didn’t answer their jibes as he advanced through the rain towards the men sent to kill him.
The knight stopped laughing.
1153, the Welsh Marches
By noon, Henry’s men had gathered beneath the ruined banners.
Henry raised Clarent before his army. The exhausted cheer that answered him was ragged.
Blood ran down the blade, over the hilt, and across his mailed gauntlet. Whenever he held his sword, he knew every man who had stood against him deserved the blade. But at night, when his hand fell from the hilt, his certainty fled.
Once, he’d tried to lock his sword away in a reliquary chest lined with red cloth. Father Matthew had blessed it, believing it held a relic brought from Antioch.
Henry lasted three nights.
On the fourth, Alain found him barefoot in the chapel, the chest open before him.
After that, Clarent never left his side, not even for Mass.
Now, he slept with it beside him, fearing assassins in the night. The long blade gleamed on the coverlet, Henry’s hand clenched around the hilt as he dreamed of blood on the hills and screams beneath the wet forest canopy.
His wife had left his bed after three months, after waking one night with Clarent’s edge laid cold against her thigh. Now, they met only at feasts and Mass. It was no matter. His sword gave him all the comfort he wanted.
“Henry.”
He’d heard Master Alain approach, but ignored him, focusing on the soldiers in front of him.
The old man’s knees cracked as he bowed. He had been Henry’s tutor and steward since boyhood. In the dark years, when retainers slipped away one by one and even his cousins abandoned him, Alain had stayed. “My lord.”
Henry lowered his blade. His soldiers dispersed, leaving him watching the crows. He closed his eyes. “Yes, Alain?”
“The guards say you left the camp last night.”
“Nonsense, I slept soundly for once.”
“My lord, they are quite insistent.”
I dreamt of a village barring its gates to me, of flaming thatch and hands beating against doors. I dreamt of children crying while Clarent opened them from throat to belly.
Alain stood beside him.
Henry’s thumb traced the worn leather around Clarent’s hilt. “Oh, say what you came to say.”
“My lord, before the war, I taught you that repeated use moulds a man.”
“You taught me Latin, numbers, and history. I remember little about moulding.”
Alain glanced at the sword. “A man may bind himself by use, my lord. To a horse, a cup. Or a blade.”
Henry looked at him. “That’s not moulding. What’s a soldier without his horse? What’s a monk without his crozier?”
Alain clasped his shaking hands. “And the drunkard?”
“I tire of this. Speak plainly.”
“You’ve brought peace to the land. It is time to put down the sword.”
“Oh, God’s teeth.” His hand settled over Clarent before he realised what he was doing. “There are still many out there who would see me dead. You would have me sleep defenceless?”
“The war is done,” Alain said. “Your uncle is dead. Chetten Keep is yours. The Marches are quiet enough. Stephen and the Empress’s son will have their peace soon, and you have loyal guards. Please, let me return the sword to the chapel.”
Henry laughed. It was a bitter sound. “You would hang Clarent in a chapel? Not very Christian of you, Alain.”
“I would bury it, my lord. In consecrated ground.”
“Bury it? You mean you would steal it.” His voice rose to a thunderous roar.
Pain crossed the old man’s face. “My lord.”
“I see you looking at it. I know you thirst to own it.”
Alain shook his head. “My lord, I would rather gnaw off my own wrist than touch it.”
Henry drew the blade.
Alain stumbled back, slipped in mud, and fell among the trampled banners. Around them, soldiers lowered their voices, pretending not to see.
Henry stood over him. He visualised opening the old man’s throat, mounting his head on a spear, watching his tongue swell black and crows feast on his eyes. His breath quickened.
Henry took a deep breath and sheathed the blade. Reaching down, he helped the old man to his feet.
“My friend.” For a moment, Henry’s voice sounded like it had when he had been young. “Forgive me, it has been a long and bloody day.”
“Don’t apologise to me.” Alain’s expression softened. “Seven years of war would mark any Christian soul.”
Henry almost believed him.
“Tonight,” Alain said softly, “I beg of you, will you sleep without it?”
Behind them, crows lifted from the field in a black cloud.
“Leave me.”
Alain bowed his head. “I held you when you were born. Whatever you have done, you are still that child to me.”
Henry looked away. “Leave before I forget that.” He watched Alain cross the field, his thin shoulders bent against the wind.
He ate alone in his command tent with his sword laid across the table.
Father Matthew entered. The young priest had joined Henry’s household after the burning of Monmouth.
Henry looked up. “Master Alain sent you.”
“Sent?” Father Matthew clasped his hands. “Nay, Master Alain begged me, my lord.”
“Christ blind me. You as well?” Henry sipped from his wine cup. “About my soul?”
“Yes.”
Henry tore a piece of bread in half.
Father Matthew’s gaze dropped to Clarent. “Ave Maria, gratia plena.”
Henry went still. “I attend Mass, Father. You insult me.”
“Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus.” The priest continued, voice shaking. “Exsurgat Deus, et dissipentur inimici eius.”
Henry roared and swept the table aside. “Begone, crow!”
Cups, candles, and platters crashed around Father Matthew. He fled the tent on hands and knees.
Henry stood among overturned dishes, sword raised, heart hammering. He picked up his goblet and drank until the candles blurred and the tent swayed around him. He lay down fully clothed, with Clarent across his chest. He belched, the taste of wine sour in his mouth.
A steady rain began just after midnight, soft at first, then harder against the canvas.
It lulled him into a deep sleep. In his dreams, Eudo came for him.
“Nephew.” Eudo de Roux knelt in the chapel at Chetten Keep, his fat hands clasped together, his grey beard wet with tears. “Mercy.”
Henry walked between the pews.
The chapel was full of dead men. They sat shoulder to shoulder, faces hacked apart, eyes open, mouths moving in silent prayer. His mother hung from the rafters in her burial dress, hair trailing like black weed. His father hung next to her in his armour.
“Your father chose Matilda, Stephen’s men were coming. I saved the hall.” Eudo crawled towards him. “It wasn’t my fault she killed herself, I’d arranged a pardon for both of you.”
Henry raised Clarent.
“Mercy,” Eudo begged.
Henry smiled. “I renounced that a long time ago.”
His sword fell and Eudo’s head rolled across the chapel floor, leaving a red path between the tiles.
Beside the altar, Theophania stood. “There you are.” Her dark hair flowed over a robe of pale, seamed skin. Her pilgrim’s cross hung between her breasts, inverted. “I knew you were under there.”
Henry looked down at Eudo’s head.
It rolled onto one cheek. Alain’s face stared up at him.
Henry woke screaming.
Morning light filled the tent.
His skull ached. His mouth tasted sour with old wine. For one fragile moment, he believed he was safe in bed, imprisoned only by nightmare.
Then he looked at his hand gripping his sword.
The blade was wet. Blood ran from its tip and dripped onto the rushes.
Henry sat up.
His boots were caked in mud and his cloak was damp. Blood was caked beneath his nails and in the links of his mail.
He’d no memory of leaving the tent.
His page, Martin, stood near the entrance holding a bowl of water. The boy was white-faced. His lower lip trembled.
Henry stared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
Martin didn’t answer.
“Speak.”
The boy’s eyes flicked towards the tent flap.
Henry rose slowly. The sword felt heavy in his hand. For the first time since the forest, he wanted to drop it, but couldn’t. “Who died?”
Martin fled the tent.
Henry walked to the entrance and pushed aside the canvas.
The camp had gathered outside.
No one spoke or looked at him.
A spear had been driven into the mud before his tent. Master Alain’s head sat upon it, his remaining eye fixed on Henry. His mouth hung slack above a white beard clotted red.
Henry fell to his knees. His whole world narrowed to the old man’s face. “No.” He reached the spear and touched Alain’s cold cheek. The skin had already tightened. One eye was gone. A crow had been there before him.
Henry slammed his fist into the mud. “No!”
Beside the chapel cart, Father Matthew clutched a crucifix and a little book of prayers, his face wet with rain and tears.
Henry forced himself to stand. “Martin.”
The boy froze.
“Come here.”
Martin shook as he stepped forward.
Henry held out the sword.
The boy stared at it.
“Take it.”
“My lord?”
“Take it!”
Martin did. The moment the hilt left Henry’s hand, a sense of loss filled him. A hundred excuses for why he should take it back ran through his mind.
Instead, he seized Martin by the collar and pulled him close. “Listen to me.”
The boy went rigid in his grasp.
“Take a horse and money from my chest. Don’t tell me where you are going, north, west, I care not. Bury it where no man will ever find it.”
Martin shook his head. “Please, my lord.”
“I’m giving you an order.” Henry stared into his eyes. “Run as though you are hunted. Do you understand?”
The boy looked down at the sword.
Henry dragged him into the tent, opened his campaign chest, and forced a leather purse into his hands.
“Go!”
Martin wrapped Clarent in Henry’s cloak and ran.
Henry stood in the tent, swaying. The emptiness left by the sword was unbearable. Hooves struck the wet ground outside. With every yard between them, the hollow inside Henry widened, his stomach rolling and his arms itching.
Panic smashed through him.
Fool. Fool.
Henry staggered towards the entrance. His guards waited outside. One word would send them after Martin. He gripped the tent pole.
He tricked me, he wanted the sword the whole time.
Henry clawed at the wood.
He stumbled outside.
Martin was already beyond the camp, riding hard through the rain, Henry’s black cloak bundled beneath one arm.
Henry opened his mouth to order pursuit.
With every hoofbeat, Henry felt weaker. The warlord was being peeled away, leaving the little boy in the woodshed.
Henry sank to his knees before Alain’s head. “I am sorry, old friend.”
In the distance, faint as a thought, he heard Clarent calling.
He knew he could not live without the sword. Sooner or later, in some weak hour, he would hunt Martin down.
Only one answer remained, and with it came a dreadful calm.
Henry entered the tent. His knife lay among the wreckage, still bloody from the venison. He picked it up and placed the point against his chest. Even as he held the knife, he hungered for the blade.
With a deep breath, he drove the knife into his heart.
He fell to his knees, both hands locked around the knife’s hilt, forcing it deeper as blood filled his mouth. The tent darkened around him and the sound of rain faded.
Henry smiled.
THE END
Tales of the Macabre
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Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-5 are intended for mature audiences.
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