The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans

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      Adrian Deans

      Adrian Deans is a lawyer, journalist and novelist. He is the author of three richly praised previous novels: Straight Jacket, Mr Cleansheets and THEM, and a sporting biography Political Football: Lawrie McKinna’s Dangerous Truth. He lives at Avoca Beach with his wife, Karen.

      Praise for The Fighting Man

      ‘The Fighting Man is a rollicking read, a non-stop action-packed adventure full of romance, battle and humour. I read it on the train, walking down the street, well after my usual bed time and when I was supposed to be working. Even though I knew exactly where the story was headed, I was compelled to know what happened next.’

      — Jane Rawson, From the Wreck

      ‘Historical novels that feel truly authentic are one of life’s great joys. Not since reading Sharpe have I felt such a sense of being in the story. Outstanding.’

      — Stuart Quin, Full Circle Films

      1066

      The Fighting Man

      Adrian Deans

      High Horse

      Published by Adrian Deans/High Horse 2017

       www.adriandeans.com

      Copyright © Adrian Deans

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      Cover design: Lucy Barker, www.lucybarker.com.au

      ISBN: 978-0-9876129-3-9 (eBook)

      A catalogue record for this title is available from

      the National Library of Australia

      For my Mother

      And for Bernard Cornwell, in gratitude

      PART ONE

      Chapter 1

      The Mind of God

      It was the Year of Endings and Beginnings, when the wild men came to sweep away my old life like chaff in a sudden gale. Hard men with iron swords and huge hungers – they had not been seen on our coast for many years but we heard rumours from the north and east. Always from the sea they came and to the sea returned, and on a gentle bend of a small obscure river we thought ourselves safe from their fire and death.

      It had been a quiet year in the village of Stybbor in East Anglia where my father was reeve and thegn, but less quiet in other places. The old king Edward was yet to produce an heir and, as he continued to age, the various candidates were jostling for position in the Year of Our Lord 1060. Those weighty matters were of small moment to the folk of Stybbor. The land enjoyed a period of prosperity it was said, although being a lad of only fourteen winters at the time, I had never known any different. A fruitful summer followed a vibrant spring and my interest grew like a spreading vine – tendrils of my vigour and curiosity seemed to encompass the village and its trade and, while I knew my father was proud of me, alas, I was not the older son. The older son learned the family business, the younger was given to the church.

      But on the morning of my brother’s wedding, not even my conjugations with Brother Waldo and the imminent prospect of entering the seminary could curb my spirit.

      ‘Portendere, portendo, portendis, portendatis,’ droned my tutor, his back to the bright sunshine which bathed the usually dim room.

      ‘Brother Waldo,’ I interrupted.

      ‘Yes Brand?’ he enquired, opening his eyes. He usually kept them closed when conjugating, as though reading the words off a tablet in his head.

      ‘Tell me about the seminary.’

      ‘The seminary?’ he repeated. ‘You’ve been there … spoken to Abbot Oldred … walked past it many times.’

      ‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘but what of its daily life? What of the men who live within those walls … most of whom I’ve never seen?’

      ‘Never seen?’ he echoed. ‘And rightly so … the brothers are hidden … cloistered so their commune with God cannot be sullied by intercourse with the world.’

      ‘They truly speak with God?’ I asked, trying to quell the unworthy feelings that always seemed to bubble up from my core when people spoke of God as something real and present in our lives.

      ‘All the time,’ replied Waldo, as though such were beyond question.

      ‘I have tried to speak with God,’ I said. ‘ … really tried, but he never answers.’

      ‘Aah,’ said Waldo, ‘that’s why you must go to the seminary … to learn how to listen when God speaks. It’s not the same as the manner of our speaking now.’

      That seemed to speak truth to me, and I had the glimmer of a vision – like sitting at the mouth of a cave and hearing the vaguest murmurs from its depths – terrifying in its way but also frustrating. Brother Waldo resumed his conjugations but I felt an itch in my soul that needed scratching.

      ‘Does God speak with you, Brother?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘God … does he speak to you?’

      ‘Of course he does … what sort of question is that?’

      ‘What does he say?’

      Brother Waldo’s eyes glinted at me from under thick, white brows, which meant his patience was sorely tried. In normal circumstances I would immediately have backed down and returned to study, but that day I felt a strange sense of urgency – as though this was something I needed to understand before I could go any further. I repeated my question, trying to show him I was asking politely and respectfully.

      Waldo sighed and said, ‘The Word of God can only be perceived through study of the scriptures and much prayer … but the mind and thought of God is personal to each of us and beyond expression. He doesn’t gossip like women in the market place.’

      I laughed but quickly stilled myself, sensing Brother Waldo was entering one of his rare muses.

      ‘The mind and thought of God is in all things … wind in the trees … birdsong … thunder and lightning. His mood changes constantly but our capacity to understand Him is so weak … so lacking in the necessary tools … that all we can do is devote our lives to serving Him, and from time to time we are rewarded with a flash of inspiration … a moment gleaming like a precious jewel when a ray of the thought of God strikes you in the eye to leave you breathless. For one shining moment you see clearly and understand the full majesty of His creation but, as we are human and imperfect, the moment passes and all we are left with is a hazy memory of joy … the inspiration fades like a puddle in high summer.’

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