Blood Moon

Chapter One - Home

They say that in battle, the heat of the fight will cause a blood lust to rise up in a man. Under the sway of this thirst for violence, he will be a pure creature of battle, a warrior to be feared, a fighter without reason or mercy.

For Amè, it was not so.

The sweaty scent of the men around him, the distant jeers of the enemy, and the feel of the heavy armour on his body did nothing but remind him that men would die here today. Many innocent men, pressed into battle by lords they could not refuse. There was no joy in the contract of death that the men had signed through low birthright. Amè did not want to lose himself to rage, and slaughter innocents.

He stood beside his father Arnaud, listening to the cheers of their men while the enemy sent answering roars from the other side of the muddy battlefield.

Instead of waiting for the fury to rise in him, Amè waited for his new armour to stop chafing, and for his grip to feel firm on his sword. It was like waiting for water to freeze on a sunny day, a small battle he was doomed to lose.

'He does not need to fight today.'

Jehanne's words rang through Amè's helmet as clearly as if she had been on the battlefield with him. His mother always defended him. If she had been trained in warfare he had no doubt that she would have stood beside him now, wielding a sword and protecting her oldest born child.

'He does, and he will.' Arnaud was firm, his tone making it clear that he would not consider any other option. Jehanne, bless her, had persisted.

'It is not right. He will join the good brothers in three months. He should do so without the blood of men on his hands.'

The growl that Arnaud gave at this would have put Amè off, but not Jehanne. She persisted. 'You have men enough to fight for you today.'

'I did not train him to write and grovel on stone floors. I trained him to kill, and rule.'

This was true, as the hard skin on Amè's hands and the firm muscles in his arms and chest could attest. Such muscles, though, were not enough for his father's liking. Amè had the lean build of a hunter, not the powerful gait of his father, a true warrior. He was barely taller than Jehanne, and even his younger brothers had started to overtake him in stature.

'He will fight today,' Arnaud said. 'He will fight any day I tell him. He will not join this order, give his life to piety. I have no need of a monk for a son.'

These had been his father's last words on the subject, and ended with such an old argument that not even Jehanne pressed him. She, like Amè, hoped that Arnaud would grow to accept the fact that his son was leaving him. They waited together while Arnaud left, then Jehanne patted her son on the arm.

'We will win him yet, you will see,' she said. 'Fight well today for him, but do not kill. It is the best way to preserve our family honour, and your own goodness.'

Jehanne had then slipped her son a handkerchief embroidered with her initials, a token for luck that he could now feel tucked between his jerkin and the heavy armour. Small as it was, it at least afforded him some reassurance, and he meant to return it later. He clung to her words, and hoped that his day would end with his soul still unblemished.

***

Light gleamed on the hilt of Arnaud's sword, and Amè wondered what thoughts ran through the older man's mind. As if aware of his son's attention, Arnaud looked down and to Amè's surprise, he smiled.

'Are you scared?'

Amè shook his head. 'No.'

It was the truth. He was well skilled with the blade, despite his misgivings over using the weapon. Only one week previously he had sparred with two guards and won. That had been in the training grounds of the house, sure, and not to kill, but Amè had drilled so often that he was not concerned about his fighting abilities.

He just didn't want to spill blood, to kill.

'Good,' said Arnaud. He aimed his sword out at the enemy line, gesturing for Amè to look where he pointed. 'Henri is in the centre, the fat pig. He rides on a cart. See him?'

Amè glanced to the back of the enemy ranks and picked out the figure of a huge man, too large to sit on horseback. Instead, he had been pulled to the battle on a cart draped with velvet and furs, with his golden fleur-de-lis flag waving behind him. His weight spoke of wealth and comfort, and some would think him soft. Amè, though, knew differently.

'Remember, he may look like a trussed up pig, but he is a boar on the battlefield. He has excellent generals, and those bastards will make this fight a tough one.'

Amè nodded, and watched his father point to the right hand section of the line. The flags at this section showed a crest that Amè recognised, a blue fish on white.

'The man in blue is Gerard. See him?'

A thin figure in a sky blue tunic stared pensively at his own men, as if worried they were going to turn on him.

'He doesn't want to be here, at all. I was hoping he would talk Henri out of the fight,' said Arnaud. 'He will hang back until the end, be sure of it, and he may not fight at all, if he can help it.'

His words trailed away into silence, and Amè turned his attention to the group of soldiers flanking the left side of the field.

Trees, packed tightly together and forming a wide canopy, kept the men in shadow, but Amè made out enough details to know they looked odd. They wore full length leather robes, with hoods that covered their heads and faces. Not a single inch of skin poked out from behind the material, and there was no hint of the weaponry they carried. They only had one banner unfurled, unlike Henri and Gerard. It was black as pitch, with a red crow in the centre. It was a most unusual coat of arms, and Amè said as much to his father.

'It is indeed. I do not know who they are,' admitted Arnaud, 'though if they are mercenaries hired by Henry you can bet they will be as villainous as he. He will only pay the ones who survive, and handsomely, so they will have almost as much to fight for as the others here. Stay away from them. Stick to me, and work towards Henri. He is the one we need rid of. We fell that wild pig and this war is over.'

He lapsed into silence once more, and after a minute Amè heard him muttering a prayer. The rest of the men did the same. A curious, almost unsettling hush fell over first Arnaud's army, then Henri's. Each man prepared for battle in his own way. They prayed, flexed muscles, or let their teeth chatter in fear, while the true warriors among them allowed the fabled blood lust to rise inside.

For his part, Amè offered a prayer and asked for forgiveness for the battle that was to follow. While he would do all that he could to avoid shedding blood, he did not truly believe that it would be possibly, and the emptiness he felt after the prayer made him feel worse. There was no excuse for killing another man. He could pray all he wanted; no permission would ever be granted for such an act.

Amè turned his attention back to the strangely robed men who hid under the trees. He was so determined to catch a glimpse of their flesh that he didn't notice the change that fell over the field. It was only when a foot soldier cried out in horror that he ripped his eyes away from them.

At first, Amè thought the man was just reacting to the impending battle, but then other men took up the cry on both sides of the field, and they were not screams of war. It was fear, plain and true.

***