David looked at the fresh piece of venison lying contently on the dying campfire. He’d shot it yesterday, a young gazelle, and he looked forward to tucking into it later. He idly poked the embers and let his aching bones relax as he pushed back his head to see an abundance of twinkling stars looking down at him. He could see several constellations here and there, and he noticed that a crescent moon had and slipped from the clutches of a cloud and was now spilling its light on David’s little one man camp. It illuminated the black woods resting beside him, and his little tent was seen with half the dazzling light on it, the other half lost in the shadows. David reluctantly brought his weather beaten face back to the venison, realising that it would probably be best to take it off now. Reaching for a pair of scratched and notched tongs, David stooped forward, stretching to grab the smoking venison. He licked his lips hungrily and a single drip of saliva escaped his watering mouth and splattered to the grassy ground. His hand grasped a rough oak wood plate and he hastily splattered the marinated eye fillet onto his plate along with some bits of lukewarm bacon he’d toasted before.
“Thank you dear Mother Mary for this food you have provided, and may Harold and his Saxons lead England to victory and defeat those cowardly Normans and their weak leader William!” David prayed this out loud and the last bit about William was said with a bit more spirit and another word I probably shouldn’t mention. He then tucked into his rustic dinner eagerly, and before long the remains were a few belches which came from his bursting full tummy. Seeing he had nothing to do, he put out the sleepy fire, packed up his weapons and appeared to turn it in. But sleep eluded him for a while as he thought about his small band of men who were unknown to the enemy but also to the Saxons. He thought of the new men they had recruited and those who they had tried to recruit. They were called the Green Mystics, one of the most unknown people to the wider world of Merry England. Some of them carried spears, nearly all carried swords and most had bows.
His mind in particular turned to Sandron. He was a small lad of the age of about 21, who had a strong spirit and was competent with the long-bow. He was up in a farm just out-side the bustling city of York. His father, a cobbler by trade, had given him asset of six daggers for his birthday. He had found, or rather, liberated a seventh blade. It was curiously shaped. Sandron called it his ‘thug’ knife. He had named it that because he once met a thug threatening his younger brother, John. He had quietly sneaked up behind him (with no weapon) and smacked him so hard that the thug went out like a light.
“And then,” quipped Sandron, his broad North English accent filling David’s sleepy mind,
“And then I just takes that knife and slip up like my jersey just like that, see?” at that bit he indicated with his left jersey arm and motioned with the sheathed thug knife how he did it. “Like it was never there,” He ended to the weary Green Mystics.
The other six knives were similar, except that the last two David inspected were very long, basically short swords. He had said that they were crafted by his own grand-father, but on that topic he would say no more. David guessed that it was because his grandfather had passed away.
Then his thoughts turned to the others in the Green Mystics.
Peter, usually known as Big Pete, was a quiet but friendly man from the village of Glastonbury. He was broad and burly. His choice of weapons was a gigantic club, fashioned from a humongous oak branch. He was very trust-worthy. At 6.8ft, he was a gentle giant to his close companions, but an opponent’s worst night-mare in battle. Clumsy at times, he could be almost completely silent when he chose to, although he wasn’t that good on unseen movement. He was also the Green Mystics cook, and a good one he was too, David thought, a wry grin splaying over his grim face. He could almost taste his delicious spicy beef stew, or his superb seasoned lamb racks.
Once again David’s thoughts turned over to a different topic. This time it turned to his brother, Davis. He was David’s identical twin, and though he could be devastating in battle, he seemed to make everyone’s life a misery. He was probably the best with a bow, and was very dangerous with the sword, even though he was a bit of a wet blanket.
Finally, his thoughts turned to Jonah, his second in command. He was always cheerful, and always looking to cheer people up. He was very skilled with the sword, and, like Sandron, competent with the bow. His facial features were recognisable, probably because of the salt and pepper beard. He sported a small moustache, which suited him, and his short black hair which was just beginning to grey he kept trimmed short. His usual features were a wide broad smile, which covered most of his whiskery face. His shoulders were broad, and they rest of his upper body he kept in great physical condition. His legs were beefy, which added to the fact that even though Jonah was fit, he was not a natural athlete. His good condition was hours on his farm.
With those thoughts still buzzing around happily in David’s shutting down brain, David yielded to sleep, and he let its comforting arms wrap around him.
*****
When David awoke his first thought was that it was still dark. He could tell that from the half open tent flap. His second was that there was something awfully painful protruding up into the small of his back. He then realised that he had more than half a mind to use the privy, but then a thought struck him. What if there was an intruder outside, ready to knife him as soon as he showed himself?
“Don’t be stupid, David. Why should anyone kill you just because you needed to use the toilet?” he laughed to himself. Still, as he covered the ground to the nearest sheltered tree he kept on looking nervously over his shoulder, as if he half expected to see a hunched back man with a raised knife, running silently towards him.
He was about to wriggle back into the cramped tent when a quiet noise coming from the pitch black woods hit David’s eardrums. It sounded strangely familiar, but David couldn’t quite place it. It reminded him of when he was out hunting. Then he knew what it was.
“How could I forget?” murmured David, partly amused at his short memory lapse and partly ashamed of him-self for not realising that he couldn’t remember what a bowstring twanging could sound like, for that was what it was.
But his thoughts were interrupted by a sound so faint that David could barely hear it. It sounded like muffled voices, but that was only a guess. David peered into the looming black trees, but it was no use.
A dense cloud of fog had made a natural veil over the pines, making it impossible to see more than a few feet. David, sensing suspicion, covered the remaining distance to the first lines of timber and started going in when a thought struck him. What if there was an armed man, or even armed group of men, waiting to catch him. He decided to turn around and fetch his bow and sword.
He not finished buckling his blade to the rough leather belt hitched up tightly around his waist when a clear loud scream carried out to David. He hastily made the final touches to his belt and plunged into the thick fog, giving a brief glance over to see that everything was all right, but found that he could not even see his small camp, so thick was the fog.
*****
Not 20 minutes had passed when David came across some concrete evidence. He had been trailing some very faint signs which only the best hunters could pick out, and even then not many of them could do it. But David was one of the best trackers in that century, second only to Davis. Naturally David held no grudge against that fact, but surprisingly, neither did Davis. It was one of the few things he didn’t try to be negative, and when some-one brought the topic up, he would reply with a grunt, or if he was in a bad mood, he would reply, with a steely glare that would stay on you until that person would drop his eyes away from his gaze.
Little did any-one know, though David suspected this, was that Davis acted this way because he was David’s brother, and the most trust-worthy person brother too.
When David was a little boy, not even ten years old, he was being knocked about by a bully well renowned for his mean actions. David was being knocked around by this thug who was easily twice the size of him, when Davis walked out of their rustic log cabin they had been brought up in. He was doing one of his tedious chores, but as soon as he saw David being punched about, he dropped the wood basket and strode over to the scene. He quickly grabbed the bully’s collar and with a quick turn of his wrist, had put the bully to the dusty ground, then started to put his hard, clenched fists into some very painful spots, until David had managed to pull Davis away from the sobbing, wailing former bully, now reduced to a little toddler crying for his mother.
When coming back to the present, David realised that this momentary flash-back had brought him away from the trail by a few feet. He hastily retraced his steps and carried on following the tracks. The clear evidence was a piece of mottled green cloth, which had been before hanging on a broken twig was now hastily trampled on the muddy ground, which made the light boot-print even more noticeable.
“Green lined boot-print,” muttered David. “How more obvious can it ...?”
The last word was cut off by an eerie whistle which passed barely 5 centimetres of David’s thick, straight, black hair. He instinctively dived into a helpful outcrop of leafy, long ferns which would provide sufficient cover. Another black arrow slammed into a mossy log where David had just been. He now carefully unstrung his bow and quietly got one of his own arrows.
He drew back the string and let it loose.
He knew before it hit the shrubbery less than a foot from his enemy that it wasn’t going to hit. The low fog had made it hard to even see his shooter, so David basically had to guess where he was. Even so, he cursed silently to himself and decided it would be no good shooting into that stupid fog.
He was just deciding that when a wicked arrow slammed into the fleshy part of his thick calf. The leather straps took the brunt of it, but even so, David couldn’t stifle the scream that sprang from his lips.
*****
On the other side of the vegetation, the cloaked figure produced a wicked smile which could only just be seen under the shadow of his cowl.
“Got him,” he whispered to himself. The scream that had carried across the space between them was music to his ears, the shooter thought.
The man who had shot David had perched himself into the V of an enormous oak, making himself almost invisible because of the thick abundance of leaves which surrounded him.
He was thinking of disabling him and just leaving him there, just bleed him to death, when a small flurry of movement caught his eye. There it was again. The small flap of a mottled green cloak was almost identical to the one that he was wearing. The evil smile disappeared and was replaced by a twisted snarl of anger. He quickly sent a successive volley of arrows into that direction. It would have been an awesome sight to see, but perhaps it wouldn’t be so stunning to see the small trickle of blood cascade down the white rock.
“Perfect,” the man once more whispered to himself, “Just perfect”.
Chapter Two
David looked at his handiwork and nodded. He had brought last, non-cooked venison out and had squeezed it, so the blood came out. He had just finished pouring it into his water flask when a horrible whistle came over his head and he saw that the shooter had already let loose five arrows. David hurriedly opened the flask and sloshed the blood all over the white rock. Then he ran.