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KNIGHT ERRANT

Knights of Bretonnia – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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KNIGHT ERRANT

CHAPTER ONE

Chlod blinked the sleep out of his eyes and sat up. He was beneath a rotting wagon, his companions sprawled around him, clustered together for warmth under the damp blanket they shared.

He looked around the small clearing, seeing it in daylight for the first time, for they had hauled the wagon here the previous evening. A low fog hugged the ground, and long stems of grass glistened with the heavy morning dew.

Chlod grinned as he pulled a small, squirming shape from within a deep pocket. Lifting it to his misshapen face, he smiled as the whiskers of the scrawny black rat twitched in the cold air.

Producing a small piece of stale biscuit from his pocket, Chlod took a bite before offering the crumbling remains to the rat. It eagerly grabbed the food in its paws, and began gnawing at it frantically. Chlod grinned again.

‘You feeding that damn rat again?’ said a muffled voice from beneath the blanket.

Chlod held the half-starved creature protectively to his chest.

‘He’s mine,’ he grunted, too loudly. ‘There is enough food.’

Muffled protests came from under the blankets as Chlod’s harsh voice disturbed the others’ slumber.

He made a face in the direction of the voices, and turned his attention back to the rat. It had finished its meal and its head was lifted high, nose twitching as it sought more sustenance, making Chlod grin once again. He twitched his own nose in imitation, puckering his lips and showing his crooked, yellow teeth. He extended one stubby, dirty finger to the animal, and it gripped his short-bitten nail, sniffing. Finding nothing edible, it wriggled free of Chlod’s grasp and leapt from his hands. He frowned, and snatched at it, but it was quick, and burrowed beneath the dank blanket. Chlod’s pink, slug-like tongue emerged from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to grab it.

There was an irritated groan at the sudden movement, and an elbow jabbed into Chlod’s ribs, making him scowl darkly. He balled his thick sausage-fingers into a fist and thudded a punch into the shape beside him in retaliation, which was met with more protests from the others as they woke. They shifted their positions, and pulled the blankets tightly around them against the cold.

Having regained his hold on the rat, Chlod shoved it roughly back into the deep pocket on his stained tunic front, and crawled awkwardly out from the tangle of bodies. Curses and groans emerged from under the blanket as he made his ungainly progress out from beneath the rotting wagon.

Blinking against the dull pre-dawn light, Chlod blew out a long breath that fogged the air in front of his face. He shoved a hand down the front of his patchwork trousers and scratched at the lice in his nether regions.

He stamped his feet against the icy cold. A thick mist surrounded him on all sides, so that he could see barely ten yards. Ghost-like trees loomed like wraiths through the wet fog, and Chlod limped over to check on Beatrice.

‘How are you this fine morning, my beauty?’ he grunted as he approached Beatrice. She lifted her heavy head in response, her beady eyes fixing on the approaching peasant. Seeing nothing that interested her, her head slumped back down into the wet earth.

Chlod bent down and scratched her between the ears. She endured his attention, studiously ignoring him. The swine wore the peasant group’s best blanket over her back, and Chlod gave her one final, solid pat before rising once more.

He limped towards the still-smouldering fire pit, over which was spitted the remains of the previous night’s feast. Chlod’s belly was fuller than he could ever remember, and he patted it contentedly. Life was good, he decided.

He opened up the flap of his trousers and sighed contentedly as he emptied his bladder onto the smouldering ash. Steam rose from the thick yellow stream, and the fire pit hissed. Chlod hummed tunelessly and passed wind loudly.

He froze, the tune dying on his lips as he heard the jangle of a horse’s bit behind him. He spun around, his uneven eyes bulging in their sockets as he focused on a pair of knights sitting astride massive warhorses. He swallowed heavily, his heart lurching, as his eyes flicked from one to the other, like a cornered animal.

Fully armoured in gleaming plate, the knights stared down at him disdainfully. Neither wore helmets, and a flash of envy and awe overcame him as he saw that their youthful faces were free of disfigurement and their shoulder-length hair was free of tangles or burrs. One, the taller of the pair, had hair the colour of dried wheat; the other had hair as dark as pitch, and wore a serious, grim expression. Neither looked as though they had seen more than twenty winters.

Both wore brightly coloured shields upon their left arms, proudly displaying their heraldry and colours. The caparisons of their steeds also bore their heraldic colours, and each of the knights held a lance upright in their gauntleted right hands.

Chlod saw that there was someone else with the pair of knights, a hunched peasant with a squint, who was trying to hide behind the nobles. Chlod focused on the man, who lowered his head, pulling his hood down low under the scrutiny. Chlod’s eyes narrowed.

‘Nastor, you squint-eyed bastard,’ spat Chlod. ‘You sold us out.’

‘Silence,’ snapped the fair-haired knight, who was bedecked in black and red. His voice was cultured and noble, each word clearly enunciated, and far from the crude accents of the lower classes. ‘And make yourself presentable!’

Chlod glanced down and realised that his trousers were still undone. Hurriedly, he did himself up again.

The fair-haired knight nudged his steed, and the warhorse stepped obediently forward. Chlod flicked a glance towards the wagon where the remainder of the peasant band slumbered, unaware of the danger they were all in.

The knight moved his warhorse towards Chlod, and he instinctively edged backwards. The beast was massive, powerful muscles rippling up its legs and chest, and he flinched as it snorted loudly. He had never been so close to a noble mount, and he kept his arms stiffly at his side. For a lowborn to touch a knight’s warhorse unbidden was a punishable offence, and he wanted to keep his hands.

‘Lower your gaze, wretch,’ snarled the knight. Chlod dropped his eyes, feeling the hot breath of the immense horse on his face. ‘Lower,’ said the knight, and Chlod prostrated himself on the ground, pushing his face into the mud. This was the end, he thought.

The other knight then spoke, his voice loud enough to carry across the clearing.

‘I am Calard of Garamont,’ he said. ‘First born son and heir of Lutheure of Garamont, Castellan of Bastonne.’

Chlod pushed his face deeper into the mud.

‘And you peasants are trespassing on Garamont land.’

Calard’s face was dark as he surveyed the effect of his words. Panicked voices rose from beneath the rotting wagon, accompanied by frantic scrabbling. A dull wooden thump was followed by a curse, as one of the peasants sat up too quickly and struck his head. A putrid, dank blanket was thrown aside, and Calard’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he watched the wretched peasant outlaws begin to crawl out from beneath their crude shelter, their eyes wide with fear.

His brother, Bertelis, gave a snort of disbelief.

‘By the Lady, look at the number of them,’ he said, ‘huddled together under there like vermin.’

Calard had to agree with his half-brother. The peasants must have been practically sleeping on top of each other to have all sheltered beneath the wagon. They stood up, glancing nervously at each other, scratching themselves.

They truly were a pathetic-looking bunch of individuals. Encrusted with filth, they were uniformly scrawny, malformed and wretched. Several had pronounced limps and twisted legs, while others had grotesque protruding foreheads, lazy eyes, and teeth that stuck out at all angles from lips blackened with dirt. As far as Calard could make out, at least one of their number was a woman, though she was no less filthy than the others. The peasants squinted around them with slack-jawed nervousness.

Calard’s gaze swept around the makeshift encampment, and fell on the blackened, skeletal carcass spitted over the fire-pit. It was clearly the remains of a young deer, which it was illegal for a peasant to hunt and kill, let alone eat. He sighed, and turned back towards the peasant rabble.

‘You are illegally encamped on Garamont lands, and are accused of poaching Castellan Garamont’s stock. The proof of this claim is there in front of me. More than this, you are accused of avoiding taxes levied by the Marquis Carlemont, a vassal of Lord Garamont. It is also claimed that one of your number killed a yeoman of the marquis in cold blood and stole his truffle swine. As such, you are outlawed, and will be accompanied to Castle Garamont, where you will face the penalty for such crimes.’

Several of the peasants broke into tears at the pronouncement, while others dropped to their knees. They all knew that the pronouncement was as good as a death sentence. Shouts of protest and despair erupted from coarse throats. A scuffle erupted, and two of the peasants fell on another, grabbing him forcefully.

‘It was Benno, here, milord what done the yeoman in! It was him! We done nothin’!’

Bertelis, who had circled around behind the wagon, gave a derisive snort, and answered before Calard could respond.

‘Did he force you to flee the service of your lord? Did he force you to poach, and eat of Lord Garamont’s venison? No, I think not. You will all hang.’

‘Have mercy, young lords!’ one of the peasants cried, before collapsing, sobbing, into the mud.

‘Warden! Take them into your custody,’ Calard ordered.

A small regiment of peasant men-at-arms walked out of the mist, carrying tall shields painted in the red and yellow of the Castellan of Garamont, his father. They carried simple staves, topped with curved blades and hooks. One of them held an old sword proudly in his hand, and nodded his head at the young knight’s command. The men-at-arms began trudging towards the peasants. Lowborn themselves, the men-at-arms were only a little less pathetic in appearance than the outlaws. They were peasants too, after all, thought Calard.

‘You there!’ shouted Bertelis, seeing movement beneath the wagon. His warhorse snorted and stamped its hooves, sensing the tension in its young rider. ‘Come out now!’

Calard stood in the stirrups, trying to see what was happening. There was a flash of movement, and Bertelis’s steed reared. A sharp crack resounded as the flailing hooves connected, and a body fell heavily to the ground. Shouting erupted anew from the peasants, and they broke into movement.

‘Hold!’ shouted Calard, his young voice full of authority. ‘Any man that runs will be assumed guilty and cut down! Warden! Take them!’

The men-at-arms tried to restore order, pushing several of the peasants roughly to their knees with the butts of their polearms.

‘They’ve killed Odulf!’ shouted one filthy man, who had clumps of hair missing from his head. He slammed his fist into the face of one of the Garamont soldiers, and Calard cursed. Others cried out, either in protest or fear, and Calard could hear Bertelis swearing.

‘Stupid whoreson!’ shouted Bertelis. ‘The vermin came at me!’ His voice sounded incredulous.

A peasant outlaw grabbed one of the men-at-arms’ weapons, struggling against him. At a barked order from their warden, the other soldiers began laying about them with impunity, knocking peasants down into the mud with fierce blows. Calard swore again, and muscled his massive warhorse into the fray. He slammed the butt of his lance onto the head of one struggling peasant, and the man collapsed unconscious into the mud. Benno, the man accused by his comrades of murdering the yeoman, broke free of the restraining grip on him and bolted for the trees.

Kicking his spurs into the side of his horse, Calard broke free of the scuffle in pursuit, forcing men to leap out of his way, lest they be trampled. Hooves pounded up the muddy ground as he closed quickly on Benno. Calard thundered past him and pulled his steed sharply into his path. Benno, breathing hard, halted, eyeing the knight warily, and holding his hands up in front of him.

‘I warned you not to run,’ Calard said, glowering with outrage, ‘but I wish to see no more blood spilt here today. Get back with the others before I change my mind,’ Calard said, indicating sharply with his beardless chin. The man’s shoulders slumped, and he turned back to where the men-at-arms were finally restoring order.

A flicker of movement attracted Calard’s attention, and he saw a roughly clothed shape clamber atop the rotting wagon, a bow in his hands.

‘’Ware the wagon!’ he shouted, even as the man drew back the bowstring, an arrow nocked. Calard could not believe what he was seeing; for a peasant to draw arms against a noble or one of his retainers was almost beyond comprehension.

Calard kicked his horse forward, shouting. The bowman spun around at Calard’s cry, his bow swinging in the young knight’s direction, and loosed his arrow.

It slammed into Calard’s shoulder, and he reeled in his saddle. It felt like he had been kicked by a stallion, but he did not fall. He felt no pain, merely the shock of the impact, and he looked down incredulously at the shaft of the arrow protruding from the hole it had punched in his armour.

The bowman lowered his weapon, his mouth gaping wide as he registered the foolish, hasty act that had certainly doomed him. There was a shout of outrage and disbelief from Bertelis and the men-at-arms. The bowman half-jumped, half-fell from his position on the wagon, and began racing away towards the mist shrouded trees, panic lending him speed.

Chlod lifted his face out of the mud, and his eyes widened as he saw the arrow protruding from the knight’s shoulder. They had done it now. A peasant attacking a knight! Now, they were certain to hang.

Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he began to crawl away through the wet earth, elbow over elbow. He glanced behind him, expecting someone to see him escaping at any moment, and shout out.

Once at a distance he judged safe, he rose to his feet and began running low, as fast as his clubfoot would allow him, loping off into the trees, his heart pounding.

He shoved a hand into the deep pocket on his jerkin, hoping that he had not crushed his rat. It bit him hard, and he jerked his hand back out, wincing.

With a final glance behind him, Chlod disappeared into the mist.

Calard touched a hand to the arrow, still in shock at the peasant’s action. Bertelis pounded across the ground, quickly closing the gap with the fleeing bowman, his lance lowering expertly before him. Several men-at-arms also broke into a run in pursuit of the fleeing man. The lance took the peasant in the lower back, punching through his body, and he fell with a cry. Bertelis rode past him and pulled his steed around sharply.

The man’s piteous cries were ended as the men-at-arms reached him and slammed their polearms down onto his head, smashing his skull.

‘My lord, are you hurt?’ asked a voice at Calard’s side. He looked down into the concerned, coarse face of the warden at his side.

‘I have an arrow in my shoulder, Guido,’ he said dryly. The man reddened, but Calard waved him away. ‘I’m fine.’

Swinging his shield over his back, he gripped the shaft of the arrow tightly. It had punched under his pauldron, breaking several of the chainmail links beneath, before sinking into the thick padding he wore beneath his armour, though it had not reached his skin. Thankfully, the shot had been taken in haste; a fully-drawn Bretonnian longbow fired at such close range could easily have killed him. He pulled the arrow free, tossing it to the ground.

The other peasants had ceased their struggles, and knelt compliantly in the mud while the men-at-arms stood over them grimly. Several of them were whimpering, and all looked blankly around, their faces pale, shocked by the actions of their comrade.

Bertelis, his face thunderous, rode back to the peasants, his steed stamping and snorting. He reversed the grip on his lance, and thrust its point forcefully into the ground before sliding from the saddle. He drew his sword from its scabbard with a metallic hiss, and advanced on the closest of the kneeling peasants, who stared up at him in numb horror. The men-at-arms flicked glances between them, but none of them would dare to step in the path of the enraged young noble.

‘Brother,’ said Calard, a warning tone in his voice. The younger man ignored him, striding purposefully towards the group of peasants, the sword held firmly in his hand.

‘Bertelis!’ he said more forcefully, finally giving his brother pause. The younger knight swung his head towards Calard, his wavy fair hair flicking. ‘Hold your arm. I will not see these people killed in cold blood.’

Bertelis gaped at Calard in bewildered astonishment, as if he had suddenly sprouted horns.

‘Brother,’ he gasped, ‘you have been struck by a cowardly arrow fired by one of their number, you, a noble son of Bastonne! An example must be made of these wretches.’

‘Just punishment has been meted out to the offender. Sheath your sword.’

‘But–’ began Bertelis.

‘Sheath your sword, brother,’ said Calard forcefully, cutting him off. Reluctantly, Bertelis did so. He stormed away from the peasants, glaring at Calard, and remounted. He pulled his lance free from the earth.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, his scowl fading. ‘My heart skipped a beat when I saw the peasant loose that shaft.’

‘It is nothing,’ replied Calard. ‘It didn’t even scratch the skin.’ He smiled broadly and shook his head, exhaling slowly. The years slipped away as his strong face relaxed, and, for the first time that morning, he looked his twenty-one years of age. ‘The Lady was looking over me. I thought Morr was going to claim me, for a moment.’

Bertelis grinned back at him, his dark mood forgotten.

‘He wouldn’t want you. Too ugly by far.’

Calard snorted, and turned towards the peasant men-at-arms, a serious expression falling across his face like a mask.

‘Warden,’ he said, ‘we are done here. My brother and I will return to Castle Garamont.’

The peasant touched the brim of his helmet respectfully. ‘I will bind ’em, lord, just in case any of ’em try to make a run for it.’

‘Do as you must,’ Calard replied, waving a hand dismissively. He turned his steed away, his heart still racing.

A wretched, squinting peasant stood before him, clutching a cloth cap in his hands. It was the man who had guided Calard to the outlaws. He was a weasel, but at least he knew his place. The young knight raised an eyebrow.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Young lord,’ the peasant began, ‘since I led you here faithfully, I was hoping that, if it is not too much of an inconvenience, that perhaps I could… My family is poor, lord, and I have no food for my little ones. That is to say, I…’

The greed of the lower classes was without bounds, thought Calard. They tilled the lands of their lord faithfully, and in return were allowed to keep up to a tenth-share of their produce, and were protected from harm.

‘You will be recompensed for this duty, peasant,’ Calard cut in.

The man dropped to his knees in the mud, bowing and scraping.

‘You are too kind, young master,’ said the peasant, though Calard found it almost impossible to understand his words, spoken out of the side of the mouth and thickly accented.

‘Warden,’ said Calard, ‘see that this man is recompensed. I think a half-copper would be more than generous.’

‘Far more than generous,’ said Bertelis darkly.

‘Thank you, lord! Thank you,’ said the peasant, lowering his head to the ground once again.

‘I am sorry to detain you, my lord,’ said the warden, ‘but the truffle swine? Shall I have it returned to the marquis?’

‘Have it given to this man here,’ said Calard, feeling generous, ‘in lieu of his payment. If that suits you, peasant?’

‘Oh yes, lord! You are most generous indeed!’ said the kneeling man.

‘Fine. See it done,’ said the young knight, before wheeling his horse around and exchanging a glance with Bertelis.

‘Come now Gringolet,’ he whispered, leaning forward in the saddle and patting his steed’s dappled grey neck. ‘You can beat him this time.’

With one final grin towards his brother, he shouted and kicked his destrier into a gallop.

Giving their powerful steeds their heads, the pair of young knights raced through the mist-shrouded trees, rejoicing in the feeling of freedom and power. The icy wind pulled at their hair, and they urged their steeds on, faster.

They rode well, completely at ease in the saddle. Indeed, they had been placed in the saddle even before they had learnt to walk, and it was as natural to them as breathing, as if the horses were merely extensions of their own bodies. The brothers were evenly matched in horsemanship, and their steeds too were close in strength, power and endurance. Nevertheless, Bertelis’s chestnut steed was fierier in nature, and the tenacity of the beast would more often than not mean that he was the victor of their races.

Gringolet leapt a fallen stump, and Calard laughed out loud as he pulled briefly into the lead. He heard Bertelis urging his steed on, and he grinned. They pounded up the earth as they galloped towards the edge of the trees marking the northern extent of the grand forest of Chalons.

No steed of the Empire, nor of Estalia or Tilea, could match the strength and power of a pure-bred Bretonnian horse. None of them were the equal in sheer speed, and the Bretonnians were rightly proud of them. Protected in thick layers of plate barding beneath their flowing cloth caparisons, and carrying the weight of a fully armoured knight, the noble steeds could outpace any horse in the Old World.

Sighting the edge of the trees, Calard kicked Gringolet forward, riding hard. He flicked a glance sideways, and saw that Bertelis was alongside him, the two horses neck and neck. With a last burst of power, Bertelis pulled ahead, and he shouted in victory as they broke from the tree line.

Laughing, the pair reined their steeds in. Their warhorses were lathered in sweat, and their massive chests heaved in great gulps of air. Calard patted Gringolet’s neck fondly. He had raised the destrier from a foal, and he was a fine, strong and noble beast.

They were on a rise, overlooking verdant rolling hills of grassland. Sheep were clustered in fluffy white clumps across the hills, accompanied by hunched peasant shepherds, and the sun was just starting to break free of the clouds, making the whole region glow with early morning light.

A mess of small, rude hovels in the dip of a small valley marked a peasant settlement, and they could see dozens of dirty men and women shuffling about their duties. As far as they could see, from horizon to horizon, and beyond, was Garamont land, a fiefdom that had been in the family for nine generations, bequeathed from son to son. The Duke of Bastonne had gifted the land to Gundehar, the first lord of Garamont for acts of chivalry and honour on the field of battle.

Calard and Bertelis had grown up on the land, and they knew it as well as anybody could claim to. As boys, they had ridden and played from one end of their father’s lands to the other. It took almost a full day to ride from Castle Garamont to the eastern border of his lands and back, and as youngsters these lands had seemed impossibly vast and filled with adventure.

They would often purposefully lose their chaperones, much to the distress of those bidden to see them safe, and embark on quests and crusades against imaginary foes. How many fair damsels had been rescued from the maws of monstrous beasts, and evil knights bested in those childhood years? Certainly the number of punishments they suffered at the hands of the old chamberlain, Folcard, was legendary, as was the number of witless peasants who sported bruises and bumps when set upon by the wooden swords wielded by the pair.

Those days were long gone, however, and the lands of Garamont no longer seemed vast. The pair of young knights had insisted they would ride out to find the peasant outlaws, merely for something to do. Calard’s usual, serious expression fell back into place over his features as the thrill of the race wore off.

‘You know that the taxes levied on that peasant for becoming the owner of that hog will make him poorer than he is now,’ said Bertelis finally, breaking the silence.

‘I know, but he deserves no more. He’s a treacherous swine. He and the pig will be good together.’

Bertelis grinned in response. His skin was a healthy bronze from the sun, his body tall and strong from years of weapons practice and riding. His eyes were dark, his face lean and handsome, and his hair the colour of the sand that was said to lie upon the beaches on the coast. He looked every inch the epitome of Bretonnian knighthood.

‘Come, brother,’ said Calard. ‘Let us go home.’

Click here to buy Knights of Bretonnia.

A Black Library Publication

Knight Errant first published in 2008.
Knight of the Realm first published in 2009.
Rest Eternal first published in the anthology Death and Dishonour in 2010.
Questing Knight first published in the anthology Hammer and Bolter #1 in 2010.
Grail Knight first published in Knights of Bretonnia omnibus in 2011.
This eBook edition published in 2021 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1,D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Stepan Alekseev.
Map by Nuala Kinrade.

Knights of Bretonnia © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2021. Knights of Bretonnia, Warhammer Chronicles, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-80026-606-3

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