. The Day I Died .
Story of a French knight.
The year is 2000, it is a cold December morning in Wales, at the edge of a barren cliff a monstrous figure stands, contemplating the sea. The figure isn't human looking. It is pearly white, and seems to be made of whispers in the wind and the mist you see at the top of mountains. A beautiful sword is thrust through him, he doesn't seem to see it. An empty scabbard lies at his mammoth waist. The giant looks down at it sadly, he crosses his arms and purses his lips, looking for all the world like some sort of play on father Christmas.
'Ble mae fy ceddyf?' he murmurs, 'efe mae un iawn hir arhosfa a diawl-dyn.'
***
The year is 1277. Bonjour. My name is Jacques, and yesterday I died.
My remains lie at the roots of a tree on a cliff, yards away from my kind's fort.
I started the day by the way of a vicious battle in one of their many swamps. The Welsh; that's who we're fighting in this God-forsaken war. They didn't have the nerve to meet us like men, they ambushed us in a valley fen, and certainly seemed to be in their element. They pelted us with stones, shot arrows at damningly close range. Pa! A gang of their savages chased me out of the battle-field on horseback. I rode stiffly into the outskirts of a forest, trying to hide from them. It worked, despite my height, on horseback. I threw them off.
So I rode a little further into the forest.
Just as I was getting relaxed, a friend of mine - Jean-Paul, also from the battle-field - ran past, into the forest, screaming 'Je nes veux pas mourir!' The shock caused my horse to shie. The stupid beast threw me off down a bank, behind it, and then cantered off. I rolled end over end, on my head - eventually I landed in a crooked sitting position. Winded, I lay still for a while, trying to work up enough strength to stand. I clumsily climbed the bank, by sinking my sword in - a feat in its own, lifting it. Once at the top, I turned round and saw a stream a little way ahead of me. I waddled over and drank deeply, the water was pure, crystal clear and cool.
I inhaled the fresh air, deeply, in preparation for a large sigh of contentment.
Halfway through, though, my breath caught in my chest with fear, a bead of sweat trickled down my back. Something was glinting behind the bushes, in the sunlight filtering through the forest trees. The bushes rustled and I fell back in shock against a tree, causing my visor to snap closed - and then it happened. My stupid steed stuck his head through the bushes and blinked at me.
I got shakily to my feet, cursing my own stupidity and paranoia. Unable to see clearly, due to my visor, I attempted to wrench it open. It wouldn't budge.
'Come on, I may as well have some company,' I said, and beckoned to where I assumed the horse was.
I turned, and tried to walk along the bank, but something in front of me got in the way. Standing back, dazed at the ringing in my ears, I pulled at my visor again: this time it gave way. I found myself facing a neat row of monstrous arrows - going all the way from my head to my toes - stuck in the tree in front of me.
I stiffened in fear. Someone had been trying to kill me.
My horse snorted and pawed the ground nervously, sensing my fear.
Its saddle was scratched everywhere, with twigs poking out of its orifices, its reigns snapped.
I tried to get on, but gave up when the horse nearly hit me with its back legs because I slapped its rump. I breathed deeply and yanked the horse on. I'd have to walk, my armour was too heavy to mount.
I found it uneasy walking there. The ground was annoyingly uneven beneath my feet, and I nearly twisted my ankle a few times. Apart from the crunch of our feet, especially the horse's hooves, the occasional twittering of a bird, and the soft tinkling of that nearby stream, there was complete silence.
We walked for what seemed like hours. My armour chafed and rubbed, and weighed my limbs down like lead. My scabbard kept dragging in the dirt - I'm not very tall - and banging against my leg. I was sure I'd have blisters on my blisters.
I chose to avoid bracken and such-like, rather than lift my heavy sword to get through them. The horse walked obediently in time with me, until suddenly it stopped, yanking my arm violently. Still attached, I swung around sharply, frowning, to give a reprimand, when a noise ahead stopped me.
A voice was muttering, 'un lawr, llawer i myned,' distractedly, in a language I didn't know.
Slowly, I turned my head and, through the leaves of the bush in front of us, saw a man, yards away. A man unlike any man I'd ever seen.
He was a giant by my standards, easily six foot. He had wide, mad, bright-blue eyes, and a shock of shoulder-length, thick, brilliant white hair, set far back on his forehead. He had a beard like a privy bush, also white, beneath a large aquiline nose. His hair made me think he'd be too old to fight, but the only impurities on his leathery skin were weather beaten cheeks, and a prominent vein in his right temple.
He had no armour on, but he did have a small round shield. He also carried a huge, ominous bow, almost the same size as himself, roughly hewn in what I thought was Ash, resting lightly in the crook of one densely freckled arm. A strap made of some sort of animal hide stretched across his broad chest, carrying a quiver of huge arrows (which I recognised), about half a meter long each.
He had his back to us at that point, but he turned right sharply at a rustling noise, quite close by.
Someone to my right stifled a whimper.
The giant's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but at the same time danced with cruel joy, and a sneer played around the edges of his mouth. He thrust his chin forward, and inflated and deflated his nostrils.
Laughing softly, he threw one massive arm over his shoulder to his arrows. I gulped and my eyes opened wide, his biceps were enormous! He drew one of his knobbly mammoth-size arrows from the quiver, and held it between his bright white teeth.
In the same movement, he swung his shield over his shoulder on its cloth handle. Stretching his arm out straight he held up the bow, closing one bright eye, sighting down the wire. He had quick, wide, nimble fingers, and large palms to his hands. Ceremoniously, he took the barb of the arrow and tore his lips downwards, towards his chin, kissed the head and then took aim.
As the giant stretched the bow as far as possible I noticed his arm span was roughly the length of my horse. I closed my eyes just before he let go, but I couldn't shut out the awful screams of agony, and realised to my horror that he'd just shot Jean-Paul.
He went on screaming, and the giant frowned and walked toward him.
Walking, slowly, sideways, I saw him rip a whole bush out of the way in an attempt to get to Jean.
Crouching down, I saw him lying at the bottom of an Oak, with an arrow stuck on one arm, staring up at the giant, his face livid with fear, his good hand gripping compulsively at the root of the arrow. Jean-Paul had always been a tiny man, so this Goliath must have seemed even bigger to him.
The giant then drew his sword - a magnificent affair, much better quality than the rest of his weaponry. I'm a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to swords, and, despite my situation, I writhed in delight at the sight of it. It had a solid gold hilt with a single large ruby in the tang, the pommel was a round glittering emerald. Along the cross-guard a roaring dragon was engraved, and above that there was an inscription on the blade. My mouth dropped open.
I couldn't tell what the inscription said, but I did read the name 'Llewellyn-ap-Gruffydd' - and surely, only Llewellyn himself could afford a sword this fine.
He bent over Jean, looking him straight in the eye, until they were almost touching noses, and brought his mighty sword up between their faces.
'Diawl,' he muttered under his breath, scowling, his lips curling in disgust.
Jean opened his mouth, gasping, and made a faint gurgling noise in the back of his throat. He started to tremble violently, and to sob.
Llewellyn looked away at his sword, then shook his head and muttered, 'rhy byw.'
As he replaced his sword, his eye fell upon something behind the tree, which I couldn't see. His eyes darted back to Jean-Paul, gleaming now with malicious joy, his moustache twitched in a smile, and he swaggered off to get whatever it was. A second later he was back, with a massive jagged rock, held easily in one hand as if it were merely a pebble. He raised it above his head, in an action to strike - but, at that moment, the noise coming from my horse made him freeze.
He threw the rock down, narrowly missing Jean-Paul's head.
I gasped and withdrew from the bushes, to get away, and he looked right at the place where I'd have been standing. I couldn't see him now, but I heard him drawing his sword again. He made a mighty swipe with it, that almost slashed my stomach. The stupid horse whinnied in panic at the sudden movement.
It was about four yards away to my left, and there was another Oak tree to my right, so I ducked behind there.
Peering round, I saw Llewellyn eyeing my horse up. He spotted the rein was broken and quickly fixed it, swung one leg over the beast, effortlessly, and cantered off - first towards me, then off to the right, and down the trail I'd been following.
I leant up against the Oak, and closed my eyes hard. The noise of Jean-Paul hobbling off brought me to my senses, and I tried to go after him, but, hearing me, he squeaked and made off too fast for me to follow.
I clutched at a stitch in my side and, despite the fact that I couldn't have used the beast, and the thing made it much harder to hide, I felt a pang of anger at Llewellyn. He'd stolen my horse!
I heaved a sigh, and pursed my lips in annoyance.
Homeward, I told myself. I knew our fort to be near a beach, on some cliffs.
Well then.
Hours and miles passed.
I spent all my time hiding behind bushes and trees, for fear that Llewellyn might pass by on his stolen horse. I tried to imagine explaining that I'd just stood by, when faced with a chance to kill Llewellyn himself, and let him steal my horse.
All its armour, on its head and on its saddle, I'd paid for. It was all mine, all expensive, and he'd swiped it from beneath my nose, while I watched.
I was going to be the laughing stock, if I got back alive, which I seriously doubted with a giant roaming around.
I started to notice a slightly more pronounced slope in the land in front of me, and after a while I got a definite cramp, all the muscles in my legs and arms seized up inside my heavy armour. I was sweating buckets, and there was numb pain along the left side of my back.
Suddenly, I realised I was breathing really loudly, so I held my breath, trying to calm myself. But the breathing noise went on. Someone up ahead murmured.
Jean-Paul!
I strode on around an apple tree and was greeted by the most beautiful view I'd ever seen.
I was at the very top of a large cliff.
I looked down and saw Jean-Paul lying at the base of the tree, gabbling deliriously in French. He'd wrenched the arrow free of his arm, and it lay at his feet. He clutched at an apple in his good hand, muttering 'pomme, pomme de abre'. I didn't want him to know I'd seen him, with Llewellyn, so I asked what had happened.
He cleared his throat as if to answer, but the words caught in his mouth, and his eyes went wide with fear. Once again he had started to shake uncontrollably, to sob and scream to God. I noticed his eyes were focused just over my shoulder. And then I saw a mammoth shadow fall across his face, and I felt physically sick with fear.
Every muscle in me tensed.
I tried to draw my blade, but Llewellyn rammed me into the apple tree with the force of a mighty storm and the impact tore my sword from my fingers.
The pain was almost unbearable, as my armour crumpled around me, and a rain of apples poured down on me. The power of the push made me bounce back, and I sprawled on my back, at his feet. Through the pain I felt him place one gigantic foot on my gut, and deliberately lean on it. The pressure caused me to vomit, and of course it fell back on my face, stinging my eyes, my nose and mouth, and almost drowning me in my helmet.
Llewellyn bellowed a cruel laugh, and drew his sword.
Which was when my horse, wanting a rub, stuck its head between us. Stupid horse.
Llewellyn pushed the horse's head away so that its rump faced us instead. The horse, equally annoyed, bucked his back legs and sent Llewellyn's sword right to the edge of the grassy cliff.
Llewellyn looked furious. His bright mad eyes fell on me.
Stupid horse!
He yanked me to my feet with one hand and held me high in the air. Then he threw me down the cliff, towards his sword, pointing furiously at it. In my fear, I accidentally knocked the sword off the edge, and he roared. But luckily there was a ridge, and the sword had fallen there.
As I leaned forwards, reaching, I noticed there was a small recession back into the cliff, so I waved one hand above the edge to beckon him forward.
I heard him coming, and slipped sideways across the cliff-face and, using the sword like I'd done on the bank in the morning, I climbed up behind him.
He was looking frantically over the edge.
Trembling slightly, I balled up all my strength into lifting the great sword, to point at his back. I felt a nudge on my elbow.
That stupid horse was back!
I slapped it on its muzzle, and was immediately thrown forward.
Llewellyn shouted in pain, and with a thrill of terror I realised that the horse had made me spear him right through, on his own sword.
Llewellyn turned about, face contorted with ferocious rage. The tip of the blade was a good few inches through his stomach, and yet he still stood.
I turned and moved as fast as possible away from him, dodging my horse.
I had just reached Jean-Paul when Llewellyn roared, and I spun round to see, to my utter amazement, that Llewellyn was using every single scrap of strength in himself to lift my horse, off its hooves. And he did it! He screamed in agony, but threw the horse straight at me, crushing my legs completely, and slamming me so hard against the tree that my armour fell off, along with my helmet.
That stupid horse then got up, miraculously, and trotted over to Llewellyn, full of the joys of spring.
He was standing on the edge of the cliff now, shuddering with pain, looking morosely out to sea.
I could tell he meant to jump.
But the cliff did the job for him. Combined with the weight of the horse, it gave way beneath him, and sent them both, falling, right down to the beach below…
It was all over…
So there I was, lying, walking distance away from my sanctuary. Having killed Llewellyn-ap-Gruffydd. The mighty Llewellyn, rival only to a great big stupid horse.
The year is 2000, and that figure is still standing there, on the cliffs, still wondering what happened to his favourite sword, annoyed and ashamed that he was beaten - by a frog and a great big stupid horse.
.The End.